


Knee Deep in Dirty Water

by dlivius



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:32:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dlivius/pseuds/dlivius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Peter is back, and Stiles can't help but remember that secrets are best kept between two when one is dead.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>He knows he's in for a rough time; keeping a secret from his friends when they can smell a lie on him isn't exactly easy. Neither is trying to figure out what the once-alpha, undead werewolf is up to. Because he has to have a plan right? It's Peter.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Except Stiles might not know how rough the time is going to be...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knock, Knock

Peter is hardly Stiles’ favorite werewolf – the fact that he even knows enough to have a favorite, just, what is his life. Kidnapping him, wanting Scott to kill him, and nearly killing Lydia is the short list of reasons Stiles has to hate Peter Hale with every single fiber of his being. _Wanting_ to kill Lydia, attempting, thinking about it; that in itself is a pretty big way to get on Stiles’ bad side. A side that Derek, if not for the Alpha pack, would still be on. 

Stiles maybe doesn’t hate Peter as much as he used to. Maybe. Like, an ounce less. Then again, they have spent countless hours alone together while Stiles’ is on “Creepy Undead Uncle Watch Duty”. Not that Derek, _or_ Scott call it that. But they should. So maybe that ounce of hate just got replaced by an ounce of casual begrudging acceptance of the super untrustworthy zombie werewolf. At least, Peter knew how to banter.

All that aside, Stiles is still wondering what exactly had possessed him enough to let the man into his father’s house.

“I never would have thought you could cook, of all people.” Peter says, and it’s enough to bring the teenage boy out of his thoughts and back to Earth, Beacon Hills, and the sketchy werewolf sitting at his kitchen table twirling noodles on to his fork.

Stiles frowns, unsure of whether that’s a compliment or not. All he knows is his cooking is degrees more edible then Scott’s and he opens his mouth to say so when Peter quickly adds.

“This is good,” 

“It’s just pesto and noodles.” Stiles replies quickly, trying to shake off the compliment. It is a compliment apparently, and that’s so strange coming from Peter of all people. “Where were you? We found Derek, we know you got split up which you probably did on purpose even if no one will believe me, so where did you go?”

Peter just pauses with his fork in the air, finishes his twirl and takes his bite slowly. It’s frustrating, it’s infuriating, and if Stiles ever thought he’d missed this (he didn’t) then he was quickly remembering what it felt like to be in a constant state of annoyance.

“Did you miss me?” Peter asks when he’s swallowed. “No one to sit with while the others go running about? Did Derek miss having me in his sight? Scott?”

Stiles is beginning to wish he hadn’t let the man in, and had instead slammed the door on the werewolf’s pale, sick face. Peter was looking better, healthier, and Stiles’ was still debating whether he had done the right or wrong thing letting the man in and cleaning him up.

“I don’t think the guy who was dying minutes ago gets to ask so many questions.” Stiles says. He leans forward against the table. “Why are you back?” He asks.

Peter just smiles, goes back to his pasta. 

“Oh well that’s fine, just go back to eating while I sit here and rethink my decision not to slam the door in your face.” Stiles huffs and maybe throws his arms out a little as he adjusts in his seat, settling against the back of the chair and slouching.

“Nebraska.” Peter says, or really it’s nearly a sigh and it takes Stiles a minute to register what the werewolf even said. When he does its only to flail in his seat.

“Nebraska?! Why were you in Nebraska? Where even is Nebraska?” he maybe rethinks the words that he can’t possibly keep himself from saying when Peter merely rolls his eyes and sighs. “Don’t look at me like that, I passed Geography with a B+ thank you very much.” Stiles adds quickly. “Just really, what were you doing in the Midwest?”

“If I told you—” Peter didn’t have a chance to say anything more.

“I swear to god, if you say I’d have to kill you, I will go get my whole wolfsbane stash and you will eat it.” Stiles perks up, nearly shouting as he squints at the werewolf across from him. He is not in any mood to keep up senseless batter. In fact, he is pretty tired and wanting to sleep. It is one in the morning after all, and he has lacrosse practice in just four hours.

Peter seems to be completely in the mood for banter, or so Stiles figures by the way the werewolf’s lips twitch into a smile.

“If I told you I wouldn’t have a reason to come back and sample more of your cooking.” Peter purrs, not says, not even laughs, just purrs. Like a cat. “I think I should be going.” Peter says licking his fork one last time before standing.

Stiles quickly jolts out of his seat, nearly toppling over, and follows the werewolf to the front door. More like jogs after. He sneaks a quick peak at Peters ankle—the one that was soaked in blood and twisted around when Stiles opened the door to the werewolf an hour… maybe two ago. It looks fine now, no jarring ugly unnatural twist. Peter’s jeans are still soaked through with drying blood.

“Thank you for the hospitality, Stiles.” Peter says turning, and Stiles is so taken aback by these words. Out of all the people he knows in this small town, the Hales are the last people he ever expects to utter those two words. Let alone Peter Hale.

“Uh… You’re welcome, I think.” Stiles lets the words stumble across his lips and Peter just nods before opening the door and disappearing into the night.

Stiles practically falls on it as it closes, fingers scrambling to flip the dead bolt. He sinks to the floor once he gets the door secure and heaves a sigh before dropping his head back against the heavy wood. Not for the first time that night he thanks the lord, if he exists because Stiles is skeptical, for putting his Dad on the night shift tonight.

The Sheriff might know that werewolves exists. He might know that Stiles best friend is one. He might know that almost _all_ of Stiles’ friends are werewolves or something supernatural. That does not mean, however, that he would be any way comfortable with one coming to his door in the middle of the night, looking for his son. _Especially_ a Hale.

Stiles waits until he can breathe a little easier. It’s not a full blown panic attack, not even that close, but the tightness in the chest feels about the same and Stiles really doesn’t enjoy dealing with those. He thumps his head against the door a couple more times, just because he’s an idiot. Maybe. Probably.

He wonders what Scott would think if he knew what Stiles had done… or Derek. He remembers that was precisely the deal he made with Peter before the werewolf would come inside. Don’t tell anyone. Stiles is most likely an idiot.

He hauls himself to his feet all the while berating himself for letting Peter in. A voice, a very small voice in the back of his head reminds him that _what was he supposed to do?_ It wasn’t the first time a werewolf had come to him bloody and pale and near death and needing assistance. It was the first time it was Peter, but habits are hard to break.

Stiles wonders when bandaging up werewolves became a habit as he climbs the stairs to the second floor. He wonders if it even matters and slips into the bathroom to pull the bleach out from under the sink. It’s there, on reserve, for special occasions. Occasions like Stiles’ bathtub being filled with gooey black wolfsbane poisoned werewolf blood.

Nebraska. What the hell was Peter doing in Nebraska? Stiles nearly asks aloud as he shoves on his moms old pink plastic gloves and soaks a sponge in bleach over the tub. Why was Peter there… and when had he gotten caught in a wolfsbane soaked bear trap… and how long had he been bleeding and poisoned and making his way to Stiles of all people. Why Stiles? 

He scrubs at the black smears. He knows it would take longer for wolfsbane to reach Peter’s heart from his leg then it had taken to reach Derek’s from his arm. So he knows it could have been a day or more… Peter might not have even been near Beacon Hills when he stepped into the trap. That is, if he was coming straight from Nebraska. Peter was shorter then Derek, that was another factor, but he’d also had a homemade tourniquet made out of belt looped around his leg so…

Stiles head is spinning, it could have been a few days, a week, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know how fast a werewolf can run if they really want to, let alone with poison coursing through their veins. He shakes his head, maybe trying to get the thoughts out, maybe because the smell of bleach tickles his nose and makes him want to sneeze. He scours over another spot and thinks of the doorbell ring that had him scrambling to close the open windows on his laptop and shoot down the stairs.

Peter had been white as a ghost when Stiles opened the door, and after all the banshee, Darach, near-dead Derek, dead not dead Jackson, and totally dead now undead Peter experiences the teen had had in the past year he was not about to write off ghosts in his book of supernatural things that exist. Peter, though, had been very much real. Stiles had found out when the werewolf had grabbed his collar, hauled him close and growled between sharp teeth.

“Don’t breathe a word of this to them.”

Them being Scott, being Derek, and Issac, and Allison, and Lydia, and ok just everyone in Stiles crazy supernatural life. 

“Ok,” Stiles had whispered, hadn’t realized he was saying it when he did and Peter had stumbled in and that’s when Stiles had gotten a good look at the twisted, mangled, oozing broken ankle of Peter’s.

He’d half lead, half dragged Peter Hale to the bathroom where he’d stripped him of his jeans (something Stiles never expected to be doing, never really _wanted_ or thought about doing). He’d managed to get the werewolf into the bathtub with a promise of warm water, food, and a wolfsbane cure. Stiles, under Deaton’s carefully instruction, had stored away a whole wolfsbane emergency kit.

Peter had hissed when Stile’s had washed the dried blood and black blood off his skin. He’d practically howled when Stiles had pressed the wolf bane ash into the worst of the wound. That was the first time Stiles had found himself thanking God his father was at work. He’d hardly thought about what he was doing, for who, or why. Stiles had just glanced up to the strained biceps, and the way Peter Hale gripped the tub faucet so the metal nearly creaked. He’d been thankful for that, glad the tub was under abuse rather than himself.

More black blood had bubbled up out of the wound that Stiles had two fingers sunk in, he swore he could feel Peter’s bone and if that wasn’t a thought that made Stiles want to puke. He could hear the way Peter gritted his teeth together and glanced up to see a peak of vibrant red from between twitching eyelids. The wound had bled fresh blood shortly after, red and clear of poison. Stiles had shifted his focus to running the water and shoving Peter’s ankle under it.

Even now, scrubbing the tub of blood remnants Stiles couldn’t recall if the red of Peter’s eyes was part of a blurred memory, fresh blood blending with all the times Stiles had seen Peter as a hulking Alpha ( usually attacking him) or true and real. If it were real though… Stiles shuddered to think what that meant.

He kept at his scrubbing until the tub was sparkling—or as sparkling as a 13 year old tub can get—and his arm ached and he was exhausted and it was nearly 2 in the morning. Stiles tossed the sponge and the gloves under the sink with the bleach, and shuffled to his bed without changing clothes. Either he didn’t see the blood lingering on him, or didn’t care, or a combination of both. Sleep came fast and heavy, and grown men with greying goatees and red eyes swept through his dreams. Not that Stiles would remember them in the morning.


	2. Cleats, Bleach, and a Call

Stiles is at lacrosse practice when Scott says something to jog the memory of last night up in his mind. He had practically forgotten the injured werewolf at his door and eating his food. It was something bone deep exhaustion and a good sleep could do to you… or to Stiles at least. He was almost glad to not remember because when it all came flooding black, so too did the idea that Stiles had probably, most likely done something very, very stupid.

“You don’t feel it?” Scott asks Issac in a hushed whisper. They’re all huddled around the big orange cooler full of lime Gatorade (really who even likes lime Gatorade Stiles thinks). Danny off to the side looking as if he very much wants to be included, if not a little indignant that he _isn’t._ Stiles doesn’t actually blame him. Danny’s dating a werewolf (they finally told to protect him, Scott’s idea) in a way he has more right to be over here than, say, Stiles. Of course, if there can only be one human in the group, Stiles wants it to be him. He has more experience after all.

“It feels… It feels like another Alpha is nearby,” Scott whispers quickly. “I’ve felt it since last night.”

Isaac looks at his new Alpha with those adorable blue puppy eyes that make Stiles sick because really, _really_ , Isaac is anything but innocent. Stiles won’t forget the kid was _happy_ to be sent to kill Lydia.

“I haven’t felt anything, maybe it’s because you’re an Alpha?” Isaac’s voice pitches into an even lower sound when he says the last word. The A-word. Like that’s the only thing about this conversation that would be weird if overhead and potentially expose them as werewolves. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Maybe Derek’s sulking in the forest behind the bleachers watching, and _that’s_ why you feel like that?” Stiles asks not exactly whispering, more a stage whisper really. He’s surprised at the way the lie just rolls of his tongue. It must be all that practice with his father, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make Stile’s gut twist any less. Scott looks at him as if he forgot his best friend was even there. Cool, no problem, it’s not like Stiles has been around the whole werewolf thing longer then Isaac.

“Maybe… it doesn’t feel like Derek though,” Scott mumbles and Stiles shrugs casually with a little extra flailing.

“Whatever, you can go sniff it out after practice right? Patrol your borders,” Stiles says not looking at the curious stare Isaac gives him. It’s the kind of open mouthed look he gives when he’s not sure who is giving him orders, or if he wants to tear Stiles head off.

“We don’t have borders.” Scott says, but can’t help but give a little snort and a smile. “I mean, I don’t think so. I’ll ask Derek.” He shakes his head and Stiles is happy when Finstock yells at them to get their padded asses back on the fields.

He goes a little ahead of them, happy to be on the field today. Greenburg, and 3 others are out sick with the flu, or rather hangovers, regardless Stiles is happy to play. Especially now that he has something to get his mind off, something like Peter Hale coming to him in the middle of the night needing help with his eyes maybe flashing red and Scott sensing another Alpha nearby. That was definitely something Stiles needed to get off his mind. 

Stiles pushes himself harder during practice then he ever has, as if he could sweat the memory of Peter and his twisted ankle out of his head. Afterwards he, Scott and Isaac go out for Arby’s. It’s a tradition, or really it’s Scott and Stiles Tradition. Isaac just comes along because he follows Scott around like a lost puppy. Of course, Isaac pretty much is a lost puppy. Stiles is allowed to be bitter.

“We were thinking about heading over to Derek’s, you want to come?” Scott asks, licking the barbeque sauce off his fingers.

Stiles looks up from the shake he is in the process of gulping down. Both Scott and Isaac are watching him.

“What? Why?” He asks and Scott shuffles the toe of one cleat against the asphalt as he chews his lip.

“Well, Derek’s the only one we know who’s been an Alpha… so we figure he could help me.” Scott says.

_Wrong_. Stiles thinks. There is one other ex-alpha, one who probably knows a lot more than Derek about being a big bad wolf and he’s in town. Stiles isn’t supposed to tell though.

“Derek’s teaching you to be an Alpha?” Stiles asks, wrinkling his nose. “Remember how Derek turned three teenagers with serious self-esteem issues and Jackson who became the Kanima, oh, and he wanted to _kill_ Lydia?” Stiles flails. Scott just pulls a face.

“He’s the only resource we have.” Scott says, and woah there’s that ‘we’ again. Stiles isn’t so comfortable with that we. It meant to mean Scott and Stiles, now it’s more Scott and Isaac.

“We did pretty well on our own when you got turned.” Stiles mutters. “Whatever, I’ve got summer physics homework,” He shoves off the hood of the jeep, shake in hand. 

Scott looks apologetic, but even those sad big brown puppy eyes don’t work on Stiles. He’s had a lifetime worth of McCall puppy dog eyes to desensitize him. 

“Tell the sour wolf I said _Hi_.” Stiles figures it’s only appropriate. He jumps behind the wheel and returns the wave Scott gives him.

It’s not like Stiles doesn’t like hanging out with Scott and Isaac and Derek and… well just about all the werewolves of Beacon Hills. He just doesn’t like hanging out with all the werewolves when Scott and Isaac are acting like twin goofballs, and Derek spends most of the time looming or throwing inquisitive looks Stiles way. Like what’s the human doing here if he can’t actually _do_ anything.

Stiles wasn’t lying about the physics homework either. He has loads of it. Apparently pre-Lydia-turning-out-to-be-a-Banshee-and-two-of-their-friends-nearly-three-dying Stiles thought taking college level Physics was a good idea. He is completely rethinking it now.

Then again, it is a good excuse to lie on his bed and twirl a pencil and think about how now the alpha pack is gone his life can go back to normal and he can sit behind Lydia Martin in class and try and catch whiffs of her mango scented, strawberry colored hair. Old habits die hard, and Stiles isn’t about to get rid of the only normal thing in his life. Fantasying about girls—even if those girls turn out to be announcers of the newly dead, supernatural banshees.

Stiles groans and drops his head onto the papers spread in front of him. Ruined, everything is ruined. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy having a werewolf for a beast friend. He liked it a lot more when it was new and exciting. Before Scott tried to kill him. Before Peter tried to kill them all. Before the Kanima killed people _in front_ of him. Before Derek wanted to kill his dream girl. Before Allison’s Grandpa nearly killed him. Oh, yeah, and before a pack of fucking alpha werewolves came into town and turned everything into a living nightmare. 

His breath came in a shallow rasp and Stiles felt tears come to his eyes. Now he was having a panic attack, cool, awesome. His chest felt like it was wrapped in saran wrap and someone had wedged him between the teeth of a vice. Just wait, just breath and wait. He told himself. These things only last seven to ten minutes. He knows that, his therapist told him that. Not the one from school, Ms. Morrell, who is currently worm fodder due to Alpha anger issues and no- no Stiles is not thinking of that.

He chokes on a breath and turns his face so that he isn’t mashed up against the comforter. He knows he can breathe, that it’s all in his head. Turning still helps. He lays there, fighting the way his chest aches and compresses and his throat feels like its closing.

Stiles has had one too many panic attacks this year alone. He blames werewolves. He blames his crazy messed up life, all that it’s become. He definitely, definitely blames werewolves. He’s feeling it all fade to a heavy overexerted buzz in his limbs when the phone rings. Not his cellphone, no. The landline they only keep because his Grandma hasn’t learned either Stiles or the Sheriff’s new numbers and you really can’t teach and old dog new tricks. Not that his Grandma is a dog…

Stiles shoves off his bed with minimal tripping and hops down the stairs to grab the phone on its fourth ring. One before voicemail.

“Hello?” He half gasps out in to the receiver.

“Stiles, I was hoping you were home.” The voice that comes out is soft, easy, and still brings chills down Stiles spine. 

“What if my Dad had picked up?” Stiles says before his brain can really register who exactly is calling. Who’s voice this is on his landline reserved for Gramma Stilinski.

“Oh, I knew he wouldn’t. He’s at work.” Peter replies, idly, almost as if he’s bored. “Does that man ever get any sleep?”

“Don’t talk about my father,” Stiles snaps quickly. His breathing feels short again. He’s afraid the panic attack is coming back again… or just the bone chilling fear that Peter Hale is off somewhere lurking and stalking the only family member Stiles has left who isn’t senile.

“You brought him up,” Peter Hale sometimes sounds like a two year old.

“What do you want?” Stiles demands, wondering if werewolves can hear a pulse over the phone. If Peter can hear Stiles’ heart jump around like a bunny on speed.

“To thank you for patching me up. My, my, Stiles… am I really so frightening? Your heartbeat sounds like a hunted rabbits.” Peter solves that particular werewolf myth.

Stiles groans and leans his head forward against the wall. 

“You’re welcome, ok. You didn’t really give me a choice.” He grits out.

“I didn’t hold a gun to your head, Stiles. You let me in, you could have shut the door in my face.” Peter says, and there’s a thought Stiles thinks. He can imagine just how satisfying it would be to swing a door shut and hear it crunch as it breaks Peter Hales nose.

“And what? Have you bleed to death on my floor?” Stiles gives a choked laugh before picking his head off the wall and shaking it with a groan. “Why am I even talking to you?” He asks, thinking hanging up would have been a better option. He should have hung up as soon as he could tell it was Peter on the other line.

“Did Scott notice?” all the softness is suddenly gone from Peter’s voice. It makes Stiles back stiffen.

“Notice?” he asks only to hear a mix of a snort and a throaty growl on the other line.

“Did he smell anything on you?” Peter must grit it out between his teeth, judging by the sandy sharpness to his words.

“Bleach, maybe.” Stiles drags a hand down his face. Werewolves… werewolves and their super noses. “Look he didn’t smell you on me,” Stiles wrinkles his nose at those words. He didn’t think he’d be saying that ever. To anyone, let alone to Derek’s creepy undead uncle.

“And I didn’t tell either.” Stiles adds quickly, before Peter can ask. “You might be the werewolf version of dawn of the dead, and tried to kill me once… might still try to kill me, but I don’t break promises. Even ones I make with you.” 

Peter actually gives a small laugh, a soft breathy sound whispering over the line and into Stiles’ ear. He can almost feel it, the way it would tickle his skin and make him twitch or sneeze.

“I tried to turn you once too.” Peter says, like it’s relevant.

“How is that even relevant?” Stiles asks, flails an arm and then stops himself. He remembers he’s on the phone with Peter Hale. Creepy as fuck, until recently missing, Peter Hale. He should just hang up. Better yet, he should tell Derek where exactly his uncle is.

“I love our little chats Stiles, until next time.” Peter beats Stiles to it and hangs up.

Stiles freezes at the words and the click of the phone line snapping off. He looks to the phone before slamming it on the receiver and stomping up the stairs to his room. He has physics homework he needs to do. Zombies he needs to shoot in Call of Duty. Since he can’t shoot the zombie in his actual life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Season 3a. (as that's the furthest the writer has seen!) :(  
> So some things may not match up with Season 3b or 4.


	3. Close Calls.

The second time Peter Hale calls, Stiles and his Dad are in the middle of dinner.

“No.” Stiles grits out when the werewolf says hello, and then he hangs up.

“Who was it?” the Sheriff asks from the kitchen and Stiles leaves the receiver to go back to his tuna casserole before it becomes cold. 

“Wrong number,” Stiles says as the phone rings again. He refuses to answer it. 

The sheriff raises an eyebrow at his son, looks from the teen to the living room but says nothing. He hears the lie, but they’re past lying about the important things. Scott and Stiles could be fighting, a classmate could be prank calling (it’s happened before), all the Sheriff knows is that if it had anything to do with werewolves his son would tell him.

**…**

The third time is on Stilinski-McCall Matinee Sunday. Stiles shoots off the couch to pick up, listen to Peter’s too friendly ‘Good afternoon Stiles my savior’ before blurting out a sharp “No thanks, we’re very happy with our cable tv provider. We’ve got that bundle, you know” before quickly hanging up.

“Telemarketers,” He rolls his eyes as he comes back to the couch. His Dad’s shoulders settle as he turns back to the movie. 

Scott raises his eyebrows and Stiles just shrugs before falling back onto one of two beanbag chairs one the floor. He’s glad Peter chose to call during the car crash scene of Date Night because the noise and screaming from the television would have made it hard for Scott to actually eavesdrop. Then again, it is one of Stiles’ favorite parts of the movie. Sacrifices.

**…**

Sheriff Stilinski nearly picks up the fourth time, if Stiles hadn’t gone careening around the corner skating on the hardwood floors with bare socks.

“Hello? Super Thai? Our food is ready? Yeah I’ll be there in just a few minutes.” Stiles blurts out over Peter’s attempt to say anything. He slams the phone on the receiver and avoids his father’s judging eyebrows by shoving his feet into his shoes.

“I ordered take out for dinner, I was really craving pad Thai, I hope that’s ok,” Stiles calls over his shoulders as he disappears out the door.

He waits until he’s driven out of the neighborhood to pull over and take a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. It was close, he thinks. He’s not sure what his Dad would do to him if he found out what Stiles had done for Peter. He’s not even sure his Dad would hurt him or Peter first… or why Stiles would _continue_ to stick his neck out for the werewolf.

He ends up having to get Thai food because _continuity_ , so he gets the kinds with beef and pork rather than their usual chicken and tofu. His father might give him a suspicious look over the dinner table, but he doesn’t complain.

**…**

Stiles has just come back from a pack meeting where they discussed the “weird alpha proximity” feelings Scott has been having (Stiles name for it, not Scott’s) when the fifth call comes.

Derek had said it must be that a different pack is passing through closely. Not a threat, but definitely something to keep an eye on. He said it was a good quality to have in an Alpha, and Stiles nearly groaned allowed at the amount of sheer happiness in Scott’s face. Like a praised puppy.

The amount of certainty in Derek’s voice when he said there wasn’t another Alpha in Beacon Hills had Stiles believing Derek had actually spent a whole night checking the entirety of the town. The guy had enough trust issues, Stiles wouldn’t put it past him.

“Lo siento, no hablo espaniol,” Stiles refrained from sighing into the receiver, after listening to Peter’s greeting. He caught the tail end of the werewolf chuckling before he hung up and hauled himself up the stairs to drop onto his bed.

Besides talking about possible Alpha intruders, they had spent the pack meeting trying to make Derek’s loft at least a little more livable. Scott’s idea.

Stiles was covered in dust, and he felt like the smell of mildew and death had crept into his nose and decided to stay for good. Why no one listened to his advice on Derek just getting a new place where Boyd hadn’t, you know, died Stiles would never know. It wasn’t like the guy wasn’t loaded or anything.

Stiles did feel bad about the way Derek’s shoulders tensed when he brought up the subject of Boyd. The feeling had subsided however when he’d been kicked off heavy lifting duty.

**…**

Stiles is marathon-ing all of the Firefly episodes in the living room while his Dad sleeps off a double shift upstairs when Peter calls for the Sixth time—and the last if Stiles has anything to say about it.

“Oh my god, this is not happening,” Stiles hisses into the phone after Peter purrs hello. “You cannot keep calling my house.”

“Well, it’s not like I have your cell number,” Peter replies and Stiles lips fumble for words for a minute.

“You’re not getting my cell number.” He snaps. “I don’t even know how you got my _home_ phone number.”

“It’s amazing what you can find in the yellow pages. Right between the Stiebers and the Stilts.” Peter drawls and Stiles lets himself momentarily fantasize about strangling the man. “Frankly, I’m surprised you picked up.”

“My Dad’s asleep.” Stiles says like a sigh.

“Oh, so I’m your dirty little secret?” Peter asks and Stiles makes up his mind. He is totally making fantasy reality when he next sees the werewolf. If he sees the werewolf again. He might just get a rope, soak it in wolfsbane, and use that to strangle the guy.

“What do you want?” Stiles says.

“I have a present for you.” Peter’s response nearly makes Stiles choke in disbelief. “A little something to repay you.”

“What is it?” Stiles is not sure he wants anything Peter would think to give him. It could be a rabid carnivorous plant hell-bent on devouring Stiles whole. Or mind control. He’d given Lydia mind control.

“Tsk, tsk, so demanding.” Peter chuckles, however and Stiles takes a deep breath. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Any horse you give me would be a Thestral.” Stiles mutters. Peter gives out a full blown laugh and Stiles flinches at the sound of it.

“Of course, they’re gentle,” Peter says and before Stiles can even wrap his mind around the fact that Peter understood a Harry Potter reference, let alone made his own, the werewolf is speaking again. “It’s a very old handwritten record of one woman’s encounters with fae.”

“It’s a fairy diary?” Stiles asks and Peter sighs.

“Yes,” the werewolf says.

“Why would I need a fairy diary?” Stiles asks, but he can’t deny his interest is perked. Someone’s written account of fairies… he didn’t even know fairies were a thing! Then again, he hadn’t known banshees were a thing and he’d never even heard of a Darach or Kanima before. Besides, if Peter was putting faith in it then it _must_ be of some value. The man had a whole bestiary on his laptop for god’s sake. Which reminds Stiles. “Can’t I just find out anything I need to know from the Bestiary on your computer? Remember that thing? You left it here when you fled to good ol’ Nebraska.”

Stiles is not letting him live that down. People—even undead werewolves—don’t travel halfway across the country without telling anyone. Is this some kind of trap, Stiles wonders.

“60601 rock road, off I50. Room 203.” Peter says.

“What?” Stiles asks and he can hear the eye roll Peter gives him on the other line. Peter repeats the address and stiles scribbles it on his thigh with a permanent marker for lack of paper. “This doesn’t mean I’m coming.” 

“I’ll see you in a few.” Peter purrs and Stiles just hangs up. He takes a deep breath, looks to the address on his thigh and rolls his eyes. He isn’t going. He doesn’t have a reason to go.

Instead he flops back on the couch and watches the next couple of Firefly episodes until he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few chapters already written up (before I had internet) so that's why these first few are posting in such short succession. I will probably have to take more time to write after chapter 4 or so.
> 
> also... if anyone knows, is it habla or hablo? I don't speak Spanish I just know this phrase because my sister speaks Spanish to me a lot. I've never had to spell it out.


	4. Fairies. Just, Fairies.

It’s a week before Stiles has any contact with Peter Hale. A week of silence he’d be thankful for if it hadn’t turned out that a whole flock of fairies had tried to make Beacon preserve their home. They were called by the unhindered power of the Nemeton, but Stiles still felt like blaming it on Peter jinxing them with his proffered book.

After having to save a few poor campers the fairies were trying to drown in the lake, and figure out how to reverse a spell that made Derek sneeze glitter (which Stiles cannot lie was immensely amusing), and tiptoe around California’s state agriculture specialists investigating a new rise in rare mushrooms Stiles finds himself trying to decipher week old permeant marker scribbles on his thigh.

He finally gets the address plugged into his phones gps and while his Dad is on the night shift he drives out to the outskirts of Beacon Hills and then _further_ to the shittiest little motel he’s ever seen. Honestly, he’s surprised any place can get _worse_ then Motel Glen Capri.

“You cursed us,” Stiles says to the look of unmasked surprise on Peter’s face when he opens his motel door. The werewolf is quick to give a small sharp grin.

“You’re here for the book?” He asks, lounging on the door frame and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yeah I’m here for the book,” Stiles pushes past the werewolf, who surprisingly lets him. He strides into the motel room glancing from the one sleep roused bed to the table and chairs near the window. On the table in between old take out containers and beer bottles (Stiles is surprised the guy doesn’t drink only wine) lays a very old leather bound book.

Stiles points and Peter doesn’t have to say anything. He does any way.

“I’m guessing you tried my bestiary and found it lacking on the subject?” Peter says. 

Stiles picks the book up, turns and notices Peter is doing anything but blocking the door. It’s not what he expected. He tucks the book under his arm and gives Peter a grim smile before ducking out the door.

“Call first next time,” Peter calls after him.

It takes all Stiles willpower not to jog to his jeep and speed away. There will be no next time, he tells himself. He is going to tell Scott and Derek the first chance he gets. Having a creepy undead uncle in a Motel outside city limits and offering help before its need is definitely something the whole pack needs to know about.

…

The book comes in handy, especially when Derek and Stiles get swarmed by the pesky fairies in the middle of the preserve. They were supposed to be back up for Scott and Isaac who were going snooping, and well... the important thing is Stiles had spent hours studying all he could from the diary. It takes some quick thinking but Stiles is able to distract them with a tongue twister for long enough for Derek and him to run away.

Scott and Isaac have found the fairies home. An old oak, and really Stiles is starting to get really annoyed with California State’s incessant need to keep old forests safe from lumber farming. They have to burn the tree, and in the time being the fairies swarm them. 

Stiles may have been a fan of Fern Gully as a child, but they totally left off a few details. Like the mouths full of tiny razor sharp teeth, and the needle like claws, and the whole spitting acid aspect. 

“I trusted you childhood cartoons!” Stiles screams ducking behind the nearest fallen log as his three werewolf friends slash at the buzzing swarm all claws and snarling. 

It takes longer than expected to actually get the fire started, and oh my god does Stiles hate excessive rain. He finally gets the tree to light and as soon as the flames engulf the Fairies turn from the three werewolves to their home with frantic gestures to calm the crackling fire. 

Stiles scrambles out from his hiding space and over to the three aghast werewolves staring at the fire and gives a solid whoop of delight as the tree burns. In retrospect, burning a tree in the middle of the forest is a horrible idea. It takes all of Beacon Hills volunteer firefighters to put the small forest fire out before it spreads across the preserve.

They manage to get off with a warning after a carefully crafted lie about camping and campfires getting out of hand. Stiles’ idea, Scott and Isaac just sit by looking sheepishly guilty and Derek just groans into his hands. Afterwards they head to Derek’s place to clean up. They’re all covered in ash. The werewolves are fairly ok, having healed from all the little cuts the fairies could deal out. Stiles on the other hand feels like he’s taken a swim in a pool of paper shreddings.

“Ow, _ow_.” He hisses as Scott dabs a cotton ball soaked with rubbing alcohol on the worst of his cuts. Scott just throws him an apologetic look and continues his doctoring.

“You know, the whole image of Derek tearing off fairy wings is going to stay with me for a very long time,” Stiles says and Derek growls from across the room where he’s sulking on the couch waiting for Isaac to get out of the shower so he too can wash the soot off himself.

“I’m still wondering how you knew a tongue twister would distract them, and burning their tree would get rid of them.” Derek says from the couch and Scott pauses after pressing a band aid to a fairly deep cut on Stiles cheek.

“Yeah, where did you learn that?” his best friend asks.

“The internet,” Stiles replies without thinking. “Really, you guys are vastly under educating yourselves given the amount of resources at your fingertips… claw tips.” Even if he’s surrounded by supernatural beings who can detect a lie by heartbeat, Stiles has not yet shaken the habit.

“Do you want pizza? I want pizza.” Scott changes the subject and really _that’s_ the best friend Stiles remembers.

“I want some sleep. Fifty undisturbed years of sleep.” Stiles says.

“I want pizza,” Issac announces, out of the shower.

Stiles had considered going with Scott despite his heavy eyelids. He really had. Instead he just said goodbye as he shoved to his feet. Stiles left the apartment with Derek’s eyes on his back and the hope upon hopes that this Hale would just let the matter go. After all, they are all alive and the fairies are not.


	5. When Research Fails

The death of the fairies and the peace it brings doesn’t last long before another supernatural creature is replacing them. This one succeeding in drowning people in the lake.

“What do we think this is, a killer mermaid?” Stiles quips as Derek folds his muscular frame into the small window of Stiles’ bedroom. He’s brought Peter’s laptop with him, just like he said he would before they all left the impromptu packing meeting at his place. Stiles, however, had thought the werewolf might actually use the door.

“You know, ‘cause if that’s it I’m out. No way am I letting all of this ruin The Little Mermaid for me _too_.”

Derek just ignores him and puts the laptop before Stiles on his desk. _On top_ of his AP physics homework.

Recently, like just tonight recently, Derek had decided that he wants to be present whenever Stiles does his research. Which probably has something to do with last times lie and the massive, just proportionately soul crushing, trust problems Derek Hale has. _I’m not the enemy_ , Stiles thinks very pointedly the werewolf’s way. They don’t even know what the current enemy is, even if Stiles has a vague idea it might be an undead uncle exhausting his nephew’s protective teen pack by calling up petty creatures to pester them. Then again, he doesn’t know _anything_ , so he’s not about to say.

“It’s this,” Derek says in that gruff total masculine posturing voice of his as he leans over Stiles completely to open the laptop. Stiles rolls his eyes because _he is no longer scared of Derek Hale_ , and the voice is totally uncalled for.

“A… Water Horse?” Stiles reads out the title of the very brief entry in Peter’s Bestiary. “You think a horse is drowning people.” He looks up to the stubble and dark eyebrows glaring down at him.

“No, no I get it. You probably had a really bad experience with a pony at the state fair one time, but that doesn’t mean all horses are evil. George Washington crossed the Delware on horseback, well and a boat, but _that_ horse wasn’t evil.” 

“Stiles” Derek says between his teeth, his voice not quite as sandy as Peter’s, more a gritty sound. “Just read.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and leans forward to read the tiny print on the screen. His eyes flying over it, skimming, and then coming back to read more carefully. A few things stick out. Drowning is one. Scotland is another.

There’s a picture, which isn’t uncommon for the digital bestiary to have but what is uncommon is the way the horse in it looks like its posing. Most of the pictures seem to be taken of a creature when it’s already dead, or catching it off guard. Stiles has always kind of wondered if it was hunters or werewolves taking the pictures and writing the entries. The idea of a fully wolfed out photographer asking someone to pose made Stiles have to choke back a snort.

Whatever momentary good feeling he had dissolves in his stomach when he actually focuses on the picture. The horse, posing by its silvery lakeside, is large and muscular. Nothing like the racing horses Stiles had seen with his Grandpa as a small child, or the tiny ponies that come in with carnivals.

The horse must have stood at 7 feet tall, not that there was anything for Stiles to judge by but it was a huge horse. Muscle stocked up under the sleek inky black skin. It looked like one of the Budweiser Clydesdales off of commercials, except that the entire thing was black. Even the mane and tufts of hair along the hooves were black. Not just that, but a sort of slick, wet looking color too. There were river weeds strung up in the creature’s mane, but what took Stiles by surprise most was the large wet angry red eyes. The color of fresh blood, or open wounds.

“So… a water horse…” Stiles gives out a lengthy breath. “Sure they’re creepy, and they drown things, but Derek they’re in Scotland, we’re in America.” He starts to turn on his desk chair but there’s nowhere to go with the werewolf boxing him in. Instead Stiles leans his head back to look up at Derek.

“This is it. I’m sure.” The werewolf says.

“Did I mention, _Scotland?”_ Stiles says.

Derek’s eyes flick to him briefly and the werewolf pulls his lips tight, furthering the scowl that is his default look.  
“Ok, ok,” Stiles sighs and looks back to the screen. “Water Horses… got it.” He clicks the bestiary window shut and opens up a browser. All the while Derek still hoovers over him, breathing down his back and just too close for the warm summer night.

“You know, you can get a chair, or,” Stiles motions to the bed behind him. A muscle twitches in Derek’s jaw before he moves back to sit on the bed and Stiles turns his attention to the laptop again.

…

Stiles could spend hours researching, in fact it has been hours since Derek had first plopped the laptop on to his desk. Stiles has flipped through site after site, reading everything but taking selective notes with hyperlinks back to the original webpages. He has maybe two whole pages in a word document, but Stiles isn’t sure about any of them. He had found far more primary sources when he was researching werewolves to prove to Scott than he did now.

Stiles clicks through a few more useless links, boredom making his eyelids droop. He is getting nowhere and when he pauses to let his mind wander for a moment he could hear the soft sound of heavy breathing.

He turns in time to see Derek rouse himself awake, shaking his head and looking to Stiles expectantly but not saying anything either.

“You know you can go get some sleep, we can pick back up on this tomorrow.” Stiles says.

“I’m good.” Derek replies back just as terse as ever.

“You were drooling on my bedspread 3 minutes ago,” Stiles flails a hand Derek’s way. “I don’t need to have super senses to detect that lie.”

Derek glares at him and Stiles sighs. Rolling his eyes he turns back to combing through search page 32 on google.

“Have you found anything?” Derek asks.

“Anything, or anything useful?” Stiles replies back clicking open and closed links. “You really should be more specific.”

Derek growls at him and Stiles, being exhausted and feeling a little like he’s on house arrest, growls back. It’s a very poor imitation, but it’s recognizable. In response Derek throws a pillow at the back of Stiles’ head; because they are two year olds.

Stiles clicks out of everything, and pushes back from his desk stretching. When he turns it’s to find Derek watching him alert.

“I’m going to bed,” Stiles announces, letting his arms drop to his side. “You going out the window, or the door like a civilized person?” 

Derek huffs and shoves himself off the bed. 

“Call me when you start in again tomorrow.” The werewolf says before he’s climbing back out the window. Stiles watches him go, and when Derek is just a dark shadow on the lawn he slams the window shut and latches it.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to bed. Not exactly, anyway. Stiles pulls his shirt off and mills around his room. First he throws the pillow projectile back onto his bed. Then he kicks his pants off, turns over his sheets, scoops all the dirty laundry off his floor and drops it in his hamper. Stiles doesn’t know if Derek’s left, or is outside keeping tabs on him. He wouldn’t be _surprised_ if the werewolf was listening in to see if Stiles was true to his word, or doing research on his lonesome. That’s why he’s careful to do mediocre daily things, but also to not let his actions be too slow.

He bundles himself up in bed, and lies there for another hour before he’s certain that even if Derek was keeping an eye on him he’s gone by now. Still, he slips from his bed slowly and tip toes down stairs. His Dad is home, and though Stiles didn’t feel any qualms about having Derek in his house now that the werewolf is no longer a Person of Interest with the Police department—he was pretty sure his Dad wouldn’t be too happy about what he was about to do.

Stiles checks the home phones caller ID before plugging the numbers into his cell. He pauses to take a deep breath before hitting call.

The phone rings several times and just as Stiles thinks of hanging up the werewolf picks up.

“Now this is a turn of events,” Peter purrs out and Stiles doesn’t even want to know _how_ the werewolf knows it’s him.

“Spare me your audition for the next Disney villain monologue,” Stiles whispers opening his mouth to say more when Peter’s soft voice cuts him off.

“And you’re calling me while your Father’s home, this must be urgent.” 

Stiles pretends to strangle the air with one hand, as he slips away into the living room.

“Do you have any books on Water Horses?” Stiles nearly snaps. He stills as the other line goes silent, Peter thinking, or checking. Though Stiles can’t here the shuffle of anything in the motel room, nor the rasping flip of book pages.

“I may have something for you,” Peter says after a long pause.

“Good, Great, you have a book.” Stiles nearly sighs, falling into a seat on the couch.

“I’ll leave the door open—“ Peter starts up again but Stiles cuts him off.

“I’m not driving out there tonight, are you crazy?” He stage whispers. “It’s late, I’m getting sleep. I’m a growing boy, I still need that remember? I’ll come by tomorrow night.”

Peter chuckles softly as Stiles speaks, and it would be irritating if not for how soothing the sound is too Stiles’ tired ears.

“Tomorrow it is. I suppose I can expect more of your cooking?” Peter asks.

“Excuse me?” Stiles almost forgets to whisper.

“Oh, it’s only fair. Payment for services rendered,” the chuckle that comes from Peter is not as smooth as his early ones. “The Diary was a thank you, if you want anything more—“

“I get it.” Stiles grinds his teeth. “I’ll bring some damn food,”

“Lovely, sleep well—“

Stiles hangs up before the werewolf can finish and storms off to drown himself in the soft cotton of his bed.

…

He means to get over to the motel sometime before ten pm, but Derek drags their useless research session (or Stiles’ research session and Derek’s glare at the tiny human session) out all afternoon and then his Dad insists on eating dinner together. Which means Stiles has to run out for ingredients and then whip something up quickly because he’s tried his Dad’s cooking and if it’s not made on a grill it doesn’t make it to Stiles’ stomach. 

He finally gets out of the house around midnight. His Dad’s fast asleep on the couch, snoring as infomercials play out over the TV, and Derek’s holed up in his loft apartment for the night. 

Stiles slips out to his jeep with a Tupperware of enchilada leftovers tucked under one arm and a growing desperation. This afternoons search had been more fruitless then the previous. In fact, it had taken Stiles in to dark areas of the internet that even his wildest fantasies couldn’t compare too. Stiles had kinks, but he was starting to view his own fantasies as surprisingly vanilla.

The trip out was just as dark and ill-boding as before. Stiles had to balance his cell phone on one jumping knee to use the GPS function to get him through the last half of the trip. It may have been a straight shot from Beacon Hills on to the highway, but he couldn’t remember exactly how far out the motel was. At least, he didn’t remember it being _so_ far out.

Stiles gets there, pulling into a spot and slamming the jeep door sharply. He tugs his lacrosse hoodie closer in the chilly breeze. Summer days are nice in Beacon Hills, but the temperature drops quickly at nights.

Peter is leaning in the door jam when Stiles gets to the room. The man’s lips are spread in a look Stiles can only think is what people call a _wolfish_ grin. 

“This better be worth it,” Stiles shoves the Tupperware of enchiladas into Peter’s chest, delighting in the soft _oomph_ noise the werewolf makes. Even if it’s just for show.

The room is tidier than before. No beer bottles litter the small table, no take out cartons or fast food bags, clean. Not spotless, Stiles isn’t sure the place hasn’t been spotless in _centuries_. He runs a hand over the wardrobe the boxy TV sits on and glances over the few dvd rentals and novels on top of the tv before turning to the werewolf. 

“Did you clean for me? Because I’m leaving once I get this book. Where is it?” He asks and Peter looks to him, a slim smirk spreading on his lips. He moves to shut the door behind him.

“Did you make these?” Peter holds the Tupperware aloft and Stiles rolls his eyes before crossing his arms. He doesn’t answer and Peter opens the Tupperware to look inside. “Boy, I hope they’re as good as they smell.” Peter gives a long, exaggerated sniff.

“Don’t let them stay in the microwave any longer than 50 seconds,” Stiles says. “Now, book.”

Peter glides past him to the motels kitchenette set, humming as he does and Stiles is reminded of his fantasies of strangling the werewolf. The man waits until he’s programmed the microwave before speaking.

“There’s no book,”

Stiles opens his mouth, but no words come out. He winds up clenching his jaw tightly when Peter turns to look at him, the werewolf’s lips peeling in that smirk again.

“Oh don’t look at me like that _Stiles_ ,” Peter turns to lean against the fridge. He says Stiles name like a taunt, like a purr. “I didn’t trick you. I _have_ information for you, just no a book.”

“Then what do you have for me?” Stiles manages to push the words through gritted teeth. “A zip drive, a cd? A guide to water horses pamphlet from the local supernatural menagerie?”

Peter’s smile just spreads wider, and the microwave beeps loudly screaming for attention.

“Look, I’ve been staring at web pages of complete nonsense for hours today and the night before, I’m not in the mood to play games.” Stiles bites out as Peter pulls the steaming Tupperware from the microwave and gets a fork from a box of plastic ones.

“That’s good to hear, as I am currently lacking in the board games department.” Peter motions a hand to the motel before lounging on the bed and cutting a bite of enchilada. He lifts it to his mouth, blowing on it slowly before letting the cheesy dish disappear between peach lips. His eyes never leave Stiles and the teen can’t help but keep the annoyance off his face.

“I ran into one when I was younger,” Peter says as soon as he swallows.

“What? How much younger?” Stiles flails out of his best tough-guy stance and inches towards the bed. “Did you write anything down about it somewhere? Other than your bestiary, because frankly it’s lacking.” 

Peter’s lips turn up and he looks to the contents of the Tupperware as he cuts another bite with the side of his fork. “Older than you,” He breathes, icy eyes flicking up to meet Stiles stare. “Older than Derek,” he takes the other bite and Stiles rolls his eyes so hard they hurt

“I wasn’t the keeper of the bestiary then, and being comatose for a few years made it hard to update anything.” Peter licks the fork before nudging at the end of the bed with one foot. “Sit, and try to listen though I know it’s not your strong suit.”

“Oh, you’re one to be talking,” Stiles replies, pulling a seat out from the table instead. Peter gives him a sharp grin before pointing to the Tupperware with his fork. 

“Exceptional, by the way.” He purrs and Stiles drops his head on to the table. He wants a long shower and some sleep. He doesn’t want to be bothered by werewolves into the wee hours of the night, especially when it’s Peter.

“Care for a bite?” Peter asks, and Stiles bumps his head against the table before responding.

“Sure,” he might have already ate dinner, but he’s a growing boy and if Peter’s offering. Stiles pulls his head up from the table to see Peter extending a bite on the fork his way. He reaches for it but the werewolf moves it out of reach by inches. There’s a glint to the man’s dusty blue eyes and Stiles realizes Peter isn’t offering a bite. He’s offering to feed him.

“Changed my mind,” Stiles says straightening up in his seat and fixing the amused werewolf with a sharp glare. Peter simply goes back to eating. “Story, now.” Stiles snaps.


	6. Perks of Being Human

It’s almost two in the morning by the time Peter Hale finishes his story. It could have gone quicker but Stiles isn’t the type to sit still or silent for too long, even when captivated. He twisted and fidgeted in his chair, and kept interrupting the werewolf with questions. Questions about Derek’s Mother, Peter’s Sister, and the whole pack before Kate. Questions about Peter’s role within the pack. (Stiles has learned that they aren’t as clear cut as he thought, in fact, they aren’t clear cut at all.)

The tale of the water horse the Hale’s gave asylum to as it crossed their territory (it ended up killed by the Argents) nearly took a back burner in Stiles’ mind. He got a glimpse of what life was like before the fire. It was as hard to imagine a young Derek rolling in the grass of the forests with his child siblings as it was a massive horse speaking and excusing its murderous tendency.  


“What I don’t get,” Stiles shifted in his seat, wriggling his toes were they were propped on the side of the bed. He’d taken his shoes off earlier. “Is that water horses are a Scottish myth. That much was in your bestiary, so why would one be here?”

Peter raised his eyebrows and reached to pluck at the elastic of the teen’s socks.

“There are Scottish werewolf myths too. Wulvar, they would leave fish on poor families’ window sills.” Peter says. “Likewise, there are dozens of species of sparrows that can be found across six different continents.”

“You’re point is?” Stiles huffs, pulling his legs off the bed and dropping them. Peter’s fingers had gone to idly tracing the edge of his socks and Stiles had to escape the tickling feel.

Peter sighs long and loud. It’s the sigh Stiles had dubbed Peter’s I am surrounded by idiots sigh of annoyance when they were stuck babysitting each other. There is a strange mix of familiarity and frustration that rises in Stiles.

“Species aren’t confined to one area.” Peter, perhaps frustrated as well, chucks the used plastic fork in the trash before standing from the bed.

“Right,” Stiles also goes jumping to his feet. “I know that, land bridges and Columbus and all that. _What I meant was, why is one in Beacon Hills._ ”

“Beacon Hills is a Beacon now that you and your little friends decided to reawaken it. I’m sure you should expect more than a few fairies and a kelpie to come visit.” Peter’s voice takes that silky condescending sound to it. He pops the Tupperware lid back on before turning to hand it over to the teen.

Stiles fumbles with taking the container just as he fumbles with his next words.

“Kelpie is the Scottish name for a Water Horse.” Peter says helpfully. Stiles glares.

“If the creature lives under water, how do we find it? Wandering through the preserve?” He blurts out finally.  


Peter looks thoughtful for a moment before he reaches to pat Stiles head in a way that is more than ingratiatingly condescending.  


“Well, I’d advise not wandering through the forest alone little boy,” Peter purrs.  


Stiles sets his jaw; quick to thrust the Tupperware under one arm and stomp towards his shoes. He shoves his feet in, grumbling out a begrudging thanks before storming out the door.  


“Let me know how it goes— assuming you’re still alive,” Peter calls from the motel doorway.  


Stiles curses the man under his breath and tosses the Tupperware in his jeep before climbing up into it and starting the engine with a jarring twist of the key. It’s the last time he goes to Peter for advice. He tells himself. It’s the last time he brings the werewolf anything to eat. Peter Hale can starve for all he cares.

…

“It’s a Kelpie. Derek figured it out, I mean sorta, I figured the rest out.” Stiles pops up from the chair he’s been sitting in waiting for Scott’s pack to all come to attendance. Everyone’s there, even the alpha-twins, but Derek. Not that Stiles cares too much. He’ll pick up quickly when he comes in, and Stiles was just too excited to tell what he found out. Learned from Peter. In secret. Semantics.  


“The good news is, we can kill it.” Stiles holds his hands out.  


Everyone stares at him and Lydia is the first to respond. She purses her beautiful glossy powder pink lips, squints those gorgeous green eyes, and when she speaks she’s flipping one loose strawberry blonde curl off her shoulder that has Stiles mesmerized.  


“I thought Scott said we were done with killing,” she says.  


Stiles opens his mouth to respond. No words come out as he’s dumbstruck by Lydia’s stern pout. He fumbles over silent words before glancing across all the faces of the pack to Scott who gives a small tight smile.  


“I just don’t think Beacon Hills needs any more bloodshed,” Scott shrugs. Those puppy dog eyes were coming out and Stiles felt a groan creeping up his throat. “I mean, look at us Stiles. We’re all in high school. _None_ of us need this on our record.”  


“I already have a murder on my record,” Isaac chimes in raising his hand slowly as if they’re still in school. The twins frown and look to him while Stiles rolls his eyes.  


“You were a murder suspect, like Derek, but you’re both absolved now. And besides it’s only on your record if you get caught.” Stiles says. He wants to sigh, or tear his hair out, but he knows he needs to stay calm and focused. It’s going to take forever to convince Scott, but maybe he can get some of the other’s on his side first.  


“What about me?” The gruff voice has everyone’s head turning and Stiles isn’t surprised to see Derek stalking into the living room. He is surprised to see that the werewolf used the front door.  


“Nothing,” Stiles says, “You were right.”  


Derek raises his thick eyebrows at him and Lydia clears her throat loudly.  


“Like I was saying, Scott says we we’re done with killing. Which clearly we are not, because I woke up screaming the other night when I was trying to get some rest before a big test.” Lydia inspects her nails before looking to throw a glare around the room. “Advanced Placement summer course.” She stretches her hand out before dropping it back in her lap and turning her glare to Stiles and then on to Derek. “Mind telling me what that was all about?”  


“Fairies.” Derek grumbles bitterly. Lydia’s eyes just twitch higher and Ethan tenses in his seat.  


“Like actually Fairies,” Scott cuts in quickly, eyes dropping to the twin who seems to relax.  


“Yeah with sharp teeth and claws and venom,” Stiles blurts, he’s still standing and he waves his arms as he speaks. “They weren’t friendly. Not even Tinkerbell levels of benign hatred. So we _had_ to kill them.”  


Lydia raises an eyebrow and tilts her chin down, while the twins give each other curious looks and Allison rolls her eyes.  


“He’s got a point,” Isaac says quietly. And while Stiles may loathe the amount of ease Isaac had with the idea of killing Lydia months before, he’s happy to have at least someone on his side at the moment.  


“I do, I have a point!” Stiles makes a flurry of motion towards Isaac before jumping back into the thick of it. “This thing? This thing isn’t going to be friendly either. It’s a monstrous horse that lives in the middle of deep lakes and _drowns_ people so it can _feed on their flesh._ ”  


Everyone seems to perk up. Including Derek who gives Stiles what is definitely a very judging eye. Stiles ignores and looks to everyone else again.  


“Five people have died already,” Stiles breathes heavy. Five people his Father was supposed to be responsible for—was losing sleep over knowing that he could do nothing. It was over his head.  


“Maybe we can reason with it?” Scott offers, drawing attention back towards him. “I mean, is it like us?”  


“What do you mean by us exactly?” Allison speaks up, causing Scott to turn to her with an accused look in his eyes. “We’re not all werewolves.” She says.  


“Can it speak?” Derek says after a heavy sigh, his gaze turning to Stiles who feels trapped by those piercing hazel eyes.  


“Yeah. It can take human form too.” Stiles leans back against the fireplace and cross his arms. “But it’s more like the fae than a shape shifter,” he says remembering Peter’s words. The werewolf’s explanation between the two. One human at origins, or even half human. The other just a false rendering, a fake, a mimicry of human.  


“So?” Lydia breathes, opening one hand in a flat gesture.  


Stiles makes a frustrated noise in his throat and pushes back off the fireplace. He’s not sure what has him on edge more, the barely any sleep he got the night before, having to put trust in Peter Hale, his Father drinking just too much again from guilt, or Derek drilling accusing holes into him with his eyes.  


“So it doesn’t look human when it’s human. Not really, not exactly.” He says.  


“How do you look not exactly human, while still looking human?” Aiden asks, sarcasm thick in his voice.  


“I don’t know. They just look off. Strange. Unreal.” Stiles forces the words through gritted teeth. “If you know what you’re looking for, you can’t miss it.”  


“But we… don’t know what we’re looking for?” Isaac says and Stiles feels his eyes rolling before he has a chance to stop them. It hurts, aches even, and he is going to chalk that up to the amounts of eye rolling he’s been doing recently what with Peter Hale back in his life.  


“If it can talk, I say we talk to it. See what it wants.” Scott says simply.  


 _“It wants to eat people.”_ Stiles flails his arms. “It is eating people. It’s not just… just wandering through our territory on a lofty stroll back to its peaceful home in the Great Lakes,” Stiles recalls the story from last night. Peter’s brush with the Kelpie, how he and Talia Hale witnessed its death at the hands of Gerald Argent.  


Derek watches him with narrowed eyes from his position leaning against the corner of the room. The room grows restless and Scott looks at Stiles with the utmost betrayal in his eyes. Like he wishes his best friend could at least get behind the ill thought of plan of _not_ killing anything, ever.  


“Why don’t we just leave it to my Dad?” Allison offers up. Everyone in the room, minus Lydia and the twins, seems to tense. Stiles notes with some amusement that Derek even goes as far as to deepen his already standard scowl.  


Allison’s words do take Stiles by surprise. As of recently she’s been more than willing to shove her hunter father out of the equation and take matters into her own hand. This… for some reason is different. Or maybe Chris is back to hunting after his near death experience.  


“No.” Scott is the one to speak up. He stands as he does, turning to address the room. “This is my territory and it’s my job to protect it.”  


Stiles doesn’t want to point out that this is, technically speaking, more Derek’s territory by birthright than it is by Scotts. He doesn’t; and Derek himself remains intensely silent.  


“We reason with it, and if that doesn’t work we move to plan B.” Scott announces. Stiles doesn’t ask what plan B _is_. He does move to catch a glimpse of his friend’s eyes burning alpha red, which _theatrics _, before dropping into Scott’s abandoned seat on the couch.__  


Everyone seems to take to the plan, or at least begrudgingly agree because Scott is obstinate _and_ has special alpha dominance powers. The pack starts to break off into chatter, some parting ways to go about and spend their afternoon doing other things. As if any of them are normal teens.  


Actually, Stiles thinks Ethan might have the closest dibs right beside Lydia and Allison. What with the whole human boyfriend who’s excluded from the pack thing going on. At least Stiles knows it’s not him. Not when he’s the pack research engine, plan maker, bringer of bad news, and warner of said bad news. Tack on that he’s spending more than a comfortable amount of time with Derek’s undead, supposedly missing, uncle and well… Stiles wasn’t sure his life was going to be anything near normal soon.  


“You,” Derek gets out the monosyllabic word as he takes the seat next to Stiles who nearly falls out of his own because woah, when did Derek get that close. “Where did you learn that?”  


“I did some researching on my own.” Stiles feels his heart still jumping from the startle, and is thankful for it as he spits out the half lie.  


“You did some researching on your own.” Derek repeats and stares.  


“Yeah,” Stiles tries to cross his arms, or hold his shoulders in a way that isn’t screaming with tension. “That’s what I said.”  


“I don’t want you doing research on your own.” Derek says.  


“Gee, thanks.” Stiles breaths. “I’m not so fragile I’m going to break my wrist flicking through google pages, and I hardly think a cyber-ghost is going to pop out and possess me.”  


Derek just frowns at him, eyebrows knitting for a moment before the werewolf speaks again.  


“Look, I just want to know where you’re getting your information.”  


Stiles feels affronted. He knows he shouldn’t be, he knows he’s technically keeping a teeny tiny gigantic sketchy secret from everyone in the pack, and totally using said sketchy secret to get sketchy information… However his options are limited. There just isn’t a lot of information online, and even the wondrous bestiary is lacking. He shouldn’t feel affronted, but he does.  


“From credible sources.” Stiles nearly spits the words out. “I helped Scott control his wolf just as much as you did, if not more, without the help of already being a werewolf myself.”  


“I just don’t want you to research alone. I want to be there, every time.” Derek says. Stiles glares into those hazel eyes staring at him.  


“You’re not my alpha.” Stiles says, the words creeping up his throat and coming out of nowhere. Contrary to popular belief, Stiles is in control of what he says like…. 78% of the time. “And even if you were, I’m human. I get to choose if I want to follow orders.”  


It may not have been the nicest, or the right, thing to say but Stile says it. It’s out there and he stands up as Derek’s eyes widen in disbelief. The werewolf’s falling back to a glare as Stiles storms out the door, slamming it and ignoring the fact that Scott shouts his name after him with worry.

…

Stiles is so upset about Derek’s demand to micromanage the one thing Stiles actually can do for this pack that even shooting off zombie’s heads in call of duty doesn’t make him feel better. It helps, but he’s still seething underneath it all, and maybe that has to do with Scott’s naïve plan too. Regardless, Stiles is peeved enough to be annoyed when his doorbell rings. It’s probably Derek, he thinks as he trudges down the stairs, here to tell him this conversation isn’t over because Derek is the type of person who needs to have the last word.  


Stiles’ face flits from annoyance to surprise when he opens the door to find Isaac standing on his stoop with his hands shoved in his jean pockets and his eyes casting about the planks before looking to Stiles’ shyly.  


“Hey,” Isaac says with a timid smile.  


“Hey?” Stiles mirrors back, eyebrows starting to inch up as the first shock drains away from his face. He moves aside to let the werewolf in, and has barely closed his door when Isaac blurts out the reason he’s there.  


“How do you kill it?”  


Stiles eyebrows skyrocket and Isaac shakes his hands out of his pockets.  


“Scott’s my alpha, I know that, and I respect that, but you’re right. This thing has killed people already, and I would like to know how to kill it, just in case.” Isaac says quickly, as if the idea that he’s even asking this of Stiles behind Scott’s back is painful to him. In all probability, it might be. Stiles doesn’t have a lot of knowledge, firsthand or other, about disobeying an alpha’s orders.  


“Just in case…” Stiles repeats.  


“Yeah,” Isaac looks sheepish again and Stiles wants to groan. He’s not immune to these puppy dog eyes the way he is to Scott’s. He hasn’t had the years of exposure.  


“Iron,” Stiles says and Isaac looks to him with those wide blue eyes that make strangers ooo and aww and overlook the tendency for violence the kid has. “Iron will hurt it, but you need to pierce its heart with iron to kill it.”  


“Are sure this isn’t like the silver Argent thing?” Isaac asks.  


“Completely.” Stiles thinks about Peter’s story, about how it nearly felt like he was there on the riverside when Gerard shot the Kelpie three times with solid iron bullets. The creature almost burning from the metal.  


“Pure iron?” it’s the werewolf’s second question and it has Stiles faltering. He hadn’t thought to ask that, so he can’t say for sure. Isaac must see this in his eyes, or hear it in his heart because he looks a little pale and a mutters something under his breath about _perfect, so we’re unprepared._  


“I think we’ll be good with anything that’s more than 50%, like as long as it’s fairly iron we’ll be ok.” Stiles blurts, feeling his anger return at the werewolf’s critique. Stiles is good for one thing, and it’s research.  


“You think…” Isaac says and Stiles grits his teeth.  


“Speculation is all we have to go off of right now, and it’s better than nothing.” Stiles expects a fight from the werewolf. Some kind of muttered aside or eye roll. But Isaac just gives the smallest of nods.  


“Ok,” the other boy says. Stiles blinks.  


“Ok?” he asks not even trying to get the incredulous sound out of his voice.  


“Well, I mean it’s still more to go on than any of Derek’s plans ever were.” Isaac shrugs.  


Stiles stares at the werewolf, those blonde eyebrows that jump up as if questioning what stiles is thinking. Stiles is thinking… Stiles is surprised at the amount of honesty but also that Isaac could just shrug the matter off. Derek was his first alpha, Stiles would have thought that meant something.  


“Derek was trying his best.” Stiles finally says with a sigh. “I mean, we weren’t all together in a pack then. It wasn’t like he had much to go off anyway.”  


“Just, don’t tell Scott I asked, ok?” Isaac doesn’t seem to hear him and Stiles rolls his eyes.  


“Yeah, because Scott and I are inseparable,” he mutters under his breath. Isaac gives him a funny look before the werewolf is clapping a hand on his back and disappearing out the door.  


Isaac’s barely gone when Stiles has a thought. A good one too. He tugs the phone from his pocket and cycles through his contacts thinking he really, really should organize them by humans and werewolves (and Lydia goddess of all) because it would make things that much easier. Instead he has to old fashion search for Danny in the D’s. Which, no, Stiles is not going to touch _that_ particular joke or the crush that for the sake of nerves and heteronormativity he pretends doesn’t exist. He can breach that convo with his Dad in college, when he’s not trying to cover up the fact there’s a naked human formed kanima in his back seat.  


“How do you have my number? And why do I have your number?” Danny doesn’t even say hello.  


“You have a werewolf boyfriend, I have werewolf… all my friends. I can’t not have your number, it’s like humans under supernatural duress code,” Stiles leans against the back of his couch and listens to the heavy sigh Danny pulls.  


“What is it?”  


“Are you at home?” Stiles asks.  


“What?” Danny nearly snaps the word at.  


“Are you at home? I need to talk to you about something.” Stiles drums his fingers against the back of the couch, waiting for Danny to stop hesitating on the other end.  


“Yeah, I’m home.” Danny eventually sighs and Stiles breathes out a rapid thank you as Danny tries to ask him what they could possibly have to talk about.  


“I’ll be over in like, three minutes.” Stiles hangs up and runs to his room to get shows and the keys to his jeep.  


…

It’s more like two and a half minutes the way Stiles drives, but in his defense he’s just too excited about the amazing plan he’s just developed. Besides what are a few street signs to the sheriff’s son? Just… reminders.  


“What is this about Stiles?” Danny answers the door in sweat pants loose around his hips. Judging from size Stile’s thinks they’re probably Ethan’s. Judging from Danny’s bare chest Ethan was probably over recently.  


“We’ll talk after you put a shirt on over all of… this,” Stiles motions to Danny’s abs with his hands as he sidles into the house.  


Danny looks down before rolling his eyes at Stiles and moving to his bedroom to grab a shirt. Stiles waits in the living room, dumping the book bag he had onto the couch and unzipping it. He’d pulled the fire poker and shovel from his bag by the time Danny came back pulling on a tee shirt.  


“What are those for?” he asks and Stiles glances to Danny with wide eyes before looking to the iron fire piece implements and back.  


“Do you still want to be in on all the werewolf stuff?” Stiles dumps the tools onto the couch and sets his hands on his hips watching as Danny stares at the couch and then looks to him.  


“Not if it involves being hit with a fire poker…” Danny says carefully. Stiles gives a sharp fake laugh before crossing his arms and pressing his lips in a thin line. Danny gives an annoyed sigh.  


“Ok, fine. What are those for,” Danny motions to the tools on the couch again.  


“There’s a thing in the lake called a Kelpie. It’s some type of fairy or something, not important. What is important is that I need you to help me try and find out where it’s living in the Preserve.” Stiles spits out and Danny frowns.  


“Why…?” He asks.  


“Why?” Stiles parrots. “Why us, or why are we looking for its lair?”  


“All of the above.” Danny looks pained as he says it.  


“One, Scott and the pack—” Stiles pauses at the slight shake of Danny’s head and the raise of his eyebrows. “All the werewolves in Beacon Hills, Ethan, Aiden, Isaac, Derek, they’re all part of Scott’s pack. Anyways, that’s not important. What’s important is that… that...” Stiles chews his lip because Danny is wearing that look that he had somehow learned from Stiles father. The look that makes Stiles spill his guts every single time.  


“Scott has said that we’re not going to kill it, so I just want to look around and maybe if we find it we can just… kill it… because we’re human and we don’t have to listen to Scott, not the way the other’s do.” Stiles sighs the truth coming out. His lie was ill prepared anyway.  


“We’re going to kill it with a fire poker?” Danny asks giving Stiles a look that says either he thinks Stiles is crazy, or he wishes he wasn’t dating a werewolf. Stiles can understand. Some days, most days he wishes at least one more of his friends wasn’t a werewolf.  


“Only if we find it.” Stiles says. “Look, Danny, it’s killed five people already. I just want to… poke around a bit. Even if we don’t find it, what’s the harm?” Stiles flaps his arms as he says it and Danny gives a grim nod.  


“Ok, I’m in.”  


“What?” the words fly out of Stiles mouth, he gapes before shutting up quickly and shaking his head. “Ok, awesome, great. Just one thing, you can’t tell Ethan.” Stiles points. Danny frowns.  


“Can you do that? I mean Ethan is Scott’s pack, sorta, it’s a fine line. Anyway he’s practically obligated to tell Scott what we’re up to and do I even need to say Scott doesn’t know?” Stiles picks up the fireplace tools as he speaks and Danny sighs and leans against the wall.  


“Good.” Stiles turns and holds out the shovel. Danny looks at it and then to the poker in Stiles grip, the furrow of his eyebrows enough of a sentence to be understood.  


“I made the plan, I get the poker.” Stiles clutches the piece of iron to his chest. “Nine tonight, meet you at the entrance to the preserve.”  


“Okay,” Danny takes the shovel and Stiles grabs his back pack heading for the door. “But Stiles,” the words make the teen turn to look as Danny gives him a pointed look. “This means I get to be included in all werewolf things from now on.”  


Stiles presses his lips together, gives a quick glance around and then sighs.  


“Got it. See you later Danny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the long wait for this one. I expect a long wait for the next too. I've kinda got a lot on my plate right now with life. but anyway here's this to tide you over. I'm not dead. This hasn't been edited to the same extent as my other chapters so feel free to point out anything you see wrong. thanks guys. enjoy.  
>  **Edit** fixed the formatting. sorry about that.


	7. Water water everywhere

Stiles was almost to the edge of the preserve when his phone rang. Sucking in a breath of annoyance, and capping his fear, he picked up.

“So, what’s the plan?” Thankfully it was not Scott or Derek. Un-thankfully it was Peter.

“I thought you were going to wait for me to call?” Stiles rolls his eyes as he spins the steering wheel of the jeep to take a sharp turn up towards the woods.

“I’m impatient.” Peter purrs. “Remember?” 

“How could I forget,” Stiles manages the words through gritted teeth. Sure Peter wasn’t the cause of all the panic attack inducing stress and fear in Stiles life. In fact comparatively, Stiles would rather be taking down a revenge thirsty rogue alpha than dealing with any of the crap he’s been up against since they killed Peter. Course, that doesn’t mean Peter is off the hook for running around town like a mass murderer, mauling Lydia, kidnapping Stiles, and attempting to turn Scott into a homicidal pet.

“So the plan?” Peter says.

“Find the Kelpie, talk to it, and hopefully send it on its way with a pack of gummy bears and a stern warning,” Stiles frowns as he glances out the windshield to see two figures in the beam of his headlights feet away. That can’t be right.

“Always the goodly little hero, isn’t Scott?” Peter laughs. Stiles grits his teeth.

“He means well.” Stiles snaps as he turns the car to a stop. “Look I have to go, Danny and I are about to comb the preserve.” Stiles doesn’t mean to tell Peter, he really doesn’t, but the words slip out. He’s squeezing his eyes shut and clutching at the wheel in annoyance as soon as he realizes what he’s said.

“Alone?” Peter asks. “Do you listen to advice given to you or do you just charge into danger because you like the rush?”

“I know what I’m doing.” Stiles snaps and hangs up before Peter can say anymore. He wouldn’t call Peter’s teasing words from the motel advice, let alone a warning.

Stiles shoves out of the jeep and walks towards the couple in the midst of making out.

“Seriously, just rub it in my face,” Stiles calls at them, feeling a sense of accomplishment when Danny pushes Ethan away with an almost apologetic look.

“You know, we could hook you up if you want. Danny and I have a lot of friends from the club.” Ethan says. Stiles just stares at the werewolf for a minute before looking too Danny.

“What part of don’t tell Ethan did you not understand?” Stiles asks.

“He was in my room when you told me, I couldn’t convince him not to come.” Danny sighs.

“Why was he in your ro—no, wait, I don’t want to know.” Stiles held his hands up, sighs and goes to rub at the short bristles of hair on his head. “Great, this is just great.”

“I couldn’t let you drag Danny into something this dangerous,” Ethan crosses his arms.

“Because you’re a saint, obviously,” Stiles says. “Please tell me you didn’t tell Scott.”

“I didn’t.” Ethan says and Danny gives Stiles a rather annoyed look.

“Well ok,” Stiles slaps his hands together and rubs them. “This kelpie isn’t going to find itself. So let’s get going.”

…

They start their search out in one group, armed with iron fireplace implements and flashlights. Safety means keeping close together. Stiles chews on his hoodie string and tries not to trip too much as the scout around. The actual lake is pretty far from the Beacon Hills Preserve entrance, and every move the make takes them closer to it and if Stiles is having any sort of good luck tonight closer to the Kelpie.

As it would have it, Stiles never has any good luck. 

He turned away for a second, just a second, to inspect a suspicious looking log and the minute he turns back Ethan and Danny are nowhere in sight.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles huffs under his breath and wipes his hands off on his jeans as he stands up. “Danny? Ethan?” He doesn’t dare shout the names through the woods.  
Stiles looks around, trying to remember exactly which way they had come from and where they were going. He thinks he’s got it sorted and heads off in that direction giving small hissing noises and whispering Danny’s name occasionally. 

He makes no headway in finding the pair, but Stiles does come across a small stream by splashing through it. He takes a moment to stare at the water, shining the flashlight around and getting a gauge of what direction the water is coming from.

He follows the stream until it opens up into the rocky shore of the lake. Stiles has to clamp down on an excited whoop, but fist pumps regardless. Danny and Ethan, or not, Stiles is going to find this things lair.

He starts scoping out things. The lake which is just as clear as ever, reflecting the sliver of the moon and all the stars. The river bed is devoid of anything interesting except for a few broken bottles and an empty Dr. Pepper can. Stiles kicks at it and looks up when he hears the sound of snapping twigs from somewhere off to his side.

Stiles turns around expecting to find Danny or Ethan or both. He isn’t expecting to see a kid his age, a stranger, stepping out of the woods.

“Uh, hi?” Stiles calls out. The other boy looks up around, eyes finally settling on Stiles. He blinks once.

“Hi.” The boy says, voice silky and deep like water. “Taking a midnight swim?” he asks, leaving the shadow of the woods to come out into the moonlight of the rock shore.

“What?” Stiles glances around him, looking at the lake and back to the boy coming closer. He’s wearing dark jeans, a sex pistols tee shirt, and a jean jacket. It’s a little bit of an outdated look but Stiles sniff-tests his own clothes, so he’s really not in a position to judge.

“No, No I, uh, was supposed to meet up with some friends…” Stiles lies, waves a hand and takes a better look at this guy. Up close he’s… he’s worth a second look. Chiseled features, sharp cheek bones, deep amber eyes, and long black hair pulled back in a ponytail over milky white skin. 

“You know it’s not safe to wander the woods at night, right?” The boy asks. His skin is almost radiant, but Stiles chalks that up to the whole moon and little to no melanoma.

Stiles gives a laugh.

“Ok, but see I’ve got a flashlight, so what’s your excuse?” Stiles holds the thing up and waves, meanwhile using the movement to hide the fact that he’s dropping the iron poker to the ground. No need to alarm the locals right?

“Kane,” the boy shot a hand out and Stiles caught it, shaking because hey formality never killed anyone.

“Stiles,” he says, surprised by how cold the kid’s skin is. “So, what are you doing out here?”

“Midnight walk,” Kane shrugs and settles his hands on his hips. “Got a bit hungry,” he smiles. 

“Yeah,” Stiles can’t help mirror the smile, eyes glancing over the olive toned boys skin. “I know what you mean, what’s, uh, what’s your poison?” Stiles was never good at flirting… or so his losing streak with Lydia would say. Hell he didn’t even know why he was making an attempt now, but this guy was Hot with a capital H.

Kane frowns, narrowing his eyes briefly before pushing back on that smile.

“You mean, you’d take a stranger out for a bite?” He asks, tilting his head a little. Stiles appreciates the way Kane’s dark hair drapes over the tawny color of his cheeks, the flittering color. Stiles stares at it. Kane’s skin under the moonlight reminds him of gasoline spills in puddles. The iridescent blue, green, pink of it.

“Sure,” Stiles shrugs. “I mean, if you want.” He’s entranced by the way the shine of the moon turns the boy’s skin from pale white to olive under hair that’s so dark it might as well be dripping wet. Or it is, Stiles watches a bead of water drop from the ends of Kane’s bands and roll down the shoulder of his jean jacket before being absorbed into the material. 

He frowns, wondering for a moment if it started raining. Stiles opens his mouth to ask when Kane shoots out a hand to grab his shoulder. It unbalances Stiles and he stumbles back, feet splashing into the shallows of the lake. Kane’s hand is still on him, his grip tight and it’s the only thing that keeps Stiles from falling flat on his ass.

“Hey, tha—” Stiles turns to address the boy but is cut off when he’s pushed further back into the lake. Stiles stumbles this time, trips on his own feet on the river rocks and falls into the lake. He scrapes his knees and gives a startled shout when strong hands grip his shoulders and shove.

Stiles catches one last glance of the moon before his head goes under, violently. His temple cracks against a rock with a blaring pain. He struggles to push himself up, palms slipping on the smooth river rocks, and slicing open on the sharp ones. Strong hands hold him down, and pull, tugging Stiles from the shallows to the depths.

He’s holding his breath, losing bubbles of it with every thrash he gives trying to fight off the… well shit the kelpie. Stiles doesn’t have time to think on how much of an idiot he is, because his lungs are starting to ache and he needs a breath. He wants a breath of air.

Stiles has researched drowning, and not just because of Mat. Before all of this business with the supernatural Stiles used to research things out of morbid curiosity. A want to know. It wasn’t for survival then. He’s researched drowning. He knows about the excruciating pain, he knows that he will hold his breath even when he thinks he can’t anymore. He knows all of this, but that doesn’t stop him from tugging at the hands on him, or squirming as he’s wrapped up in strong arms and pulled deeper.

He can see the distorted image of the lake surface before him darkening. His lungs feel like they’re going to give out or tear into pieces. He can’t hold on much longer and he knows… he knows in some abstract way if he just takes a breath of water he’ll feel fine. Better than fine. Stiles doesn’t take a deep breath, doesn’t do anything but fall still. His limbs feel like lead every time he tries to move, his chest is being shredded by the pain. A shadow casts over the lake surface, or Stiles has been pulled that deep by the claw-like hands around his waist.

…

Stiles feels like someone’s been beating on his chest. He feels like hell. His throat catches, retching, and he barely manages to roll over with some assistance to vomit water onto the river rocks.

“He’s alive, He’s alive!” A voice shouts overhead, and Stiles winces at the sharp sound of it. He reaches out to touch the rocks beside him, his fingers numb and his palms burn like fire. His head is fuzzy but he remembers it. He remembers the water, and those hands—the kelpie, and he remembers pinpricks of red eyes above him. Stiles remembers a strong hand on his shoulder, nails clipping into his skin.

“He’s alive,” the voice is recognizable. Stiles knows that voice. 

He blinks up into the dark and he can make out a face. 

“Red eyes,” Stiles’ voice sounds watery and broken. The face turns to him more. It’s Danny. It’s Danny’s face.

“What?” Danny starts to ask.

“Oh, thank god,” It’s a new voice, a different voice. _Scott._ Stiles brain tells him.

He stares up as Scott comes into view, and Danny pulls back a little.

“Stiles? Stiles are you ok?” Scott asks, and suddenly there are hands on Stiles, helping him back onto his back, cupping his face.

“I’m fine, really, I’m ok.” Stiles tries to nod but his head aches, his whole body aches. He’s cold. “Where’s…” he wants to ask who pulled him out, where they are, where the kelpie is.

“The Kelpie’s gone, I got here just as… I mean I found you here.” Danny says quickly, face twisting in confusion and worry.

“Ethan pulled me out.” Stiles knows it’s a lie, he nods even as Ethan’s face swims into view looking highly confused. “I’m sure of it.” Stiles is sure that whatever pulled him out, who, had red eyes. Bright red eyes.

He tries to sit up but his ribs scream in protest. Scott reaches out to steady him and Stiles finds himself starring over his friends shoulder at the ghost white face of Derek Hale. Derek is staring at him. 

Scott glances back to Derek and then to Stiles.

“The others, Isaac, Aiden and Allison, they’re searching the woods to see if they can find the kelpie, or whoever pulled you out.” Scott says.

“Ethan pulled me out,” Stiles doesn’t know why he insists, but he does. Scott just frowns, looks to the other werewolf hovering before looking back to Stiles.

“We’re going to take you to the hospital Stiles,” Scott seems as if he’d say more but Stiles breaks him off.

“Don’t,” 

“Stiles, you nearly drowned!” Scott squawks and Stiles pushes his best glare on and aims at his friend. “Ok, just… let my mom come look at you? Derek will take you home.” Scott says.

“My jeep,” Stiles avoids looking at Derek’s pale face any more than he has to. He doesn’t like the look it wears. A look much like the one Derek had worn when the Alpha’s had forced him to kill Boyd. Stiles isn’t Boyd, this isn’t that.

“We’ll get your jeep back, don’t worry. Derek’s going to take you home, and my mom and I will be over shortly.” Scott says, and he’s starting to stand.

Stiles is being helped to his feet by Danny and Ethan, and his sides throb with pain and his head is dizzy. He can only nod at Scott like a bobble head.

Stiles doesn’t focus much on the trip back to everyone’s cars. He doesn’t think about how lucky he was for Ethan to be there with Danny, and for him to have called the pack.

He shivers, and is wrapped up in a stiff blanket at some point. He clutches it at his shoulders as he’s bundled into the front seat of the Camaro. It’s warm inside, as if someone had started the heat already. Stiles sits, and waits a few minutes before the driver’s side door is pulled open and Derek gets in.

The car door shuts loudly and Stiles glances up to see Derek clench his jaw before he puts the car in drive and turns out of the preserve. They drive, and Stiles almost feels lulled to sleep by the motion of the car and the hum of the street.

Derek helps him inside, and onto the couch. It’s a silent wait for Melissa and Scott to come, and then Derek is sinking into the shadows. Stiles sits through Melissa McCall’s tests and checks. He’s welcome to the idea of bundling up in bed with multiple blankets when Melissa suggests it. 

“His body temperature hasn’t dropped too low so he should be fine, but Scott I want you to stay here and keep an eye on him. If anything changes call me right away.” Mrs. McCall tells Scott before she’s kissing them both on the head. 

Mrs. McCall leaves and Scott helps Stiles up to his bedroom. He tries to take the stiff blanket away from Stiles and replace it with another but Stiles won’t let him. Instead Scott bundles his friend up in bed, and then drops into the desk chair.

“You get some sleep man,” Scott says patting Stiles foot.

“Ok,” Stiles murmurs. “Ethan saved me.” He knows he doesn’t have to say it but he still does. He still lies.

…

Stiles wakes up just as the sun is peeking through his blinds to find himself wrapped up in a dark leather jacket that looks suspiciously a lot like Derek’s. He unwinds the sleeves from where they tangled around his body and shoves the jacket away so he can get the cozy softness of his jersey knit sheets against his bare chest.

Scott is still sitting in his desk chair, although his watchful vigil seems to be on a dozing period. Stiles kicks at his friend’s leg and definitely doesn’t snort when Scott jerks awake quickly.

“Dude, I’m fine. You can go home.” Stiles says to those wide blinking alert brown eyes.

“Are you sure?” Scott asks.

“Never better,” Stiles voice is raspy and sore, his neck is stiff and his chest still feels as if someone dropped a small elephant on it. “You look like hell, though, go home and sleep.”

Scott seems to waver in his indecision, before he stands and reaches to ruffle Stiles’ short hair much to the human’s displeasure. 

“This doesn’t mean we’re not going to talk about it.” Scott says. “Later,”

Stiles keeps from groaning and rolling his eyes as his friend leaves. He waits until he hears the front door shut before dropping his head on his pillow and sighing. Great, just great. His best friend is going to give him the _this is why we don’t go out alone talk,_ as if Scott has never been the one going out “alone” with Stiles. 

If he’s lucky, maybe his Dad, Derek, and Scott will pair up and Stiles will only have to sit through one speech.

…

“I’m fine, Dad, seriously,” Stiles groans into the phone for the umpteenth time. “No, I don’t need you to come back. I’m ok. I’m staying at home, and someone’s going to be with me the entire time.” Stiles presses his forehead against the wall and listens to his Dad warn him, make threats, and give Stiles the third _don’t go out alone_ talk of the day. 

Sheriff Stilinski was two towns over helping with some investigation or another that was too big for the town’s small police department (and still nothing in comparison to Beacon Hills’ supernatural repertoire). Stiles was not about to make his father drive all the way back just on his account. Near drowning or not.

“Ok, order in pizza. Can do.” Stiles finally replies, against all odds still excited to get bacon, ham, and pineapple pizza for dinner. “Love you Daddio,”

Stiles hung up on his cell, banged his head against the wall a few more times before rounding on the werewolf sitting in his kitchen.

“You had to tell him? You just had to call my Dad.” Stiles says.

Derek just stares at him, and Stiles stares right back. After what feels like an hour, but is probably only minutes, Derek sighs and turns his head.

“Don’t—Don’t start. I have already heard it all from you, Scott, and now my Dad.” Stiles shoves off from the wall and thrusts his hands on his hips. He glares at the werewolf and Derek turns to look up at him. 

“You almost died.” Derek says, he clenches and unclenches his fists. “We -- The whole pack was… Stiles you’re an idiot.” Derek manages through gritted teeth. 

“Thanks,” Stiles blows out a sigh. He breezes past the werewolf and goes to pull the fridge open. His ribs hurt, and his palms burn from being shredded against the rocks but somehow Stiles still has it in him to angrily rip the orange juice from the fridge, pop it open and bitterly chugs at it.

“And another thing,” He says when he pries the jug from his lips, choking on the juice that goes down wrong. “Since when do you have my Dad’s phone number?” He makes a face, and stutters on the orange juice in his throat.

“Since you told him about us,” Derek says. Stiles almost chokes on his orange juice again, before it registers that Derek means the whole werewolf thing _us,_ not... not.

“What’d you do, just walk into the police station ask to see the sheriff and then ‘How do you do, nice to see you outside of an interrogation room. Since I’ve been getting your underage son into some trouble lately and probably for the rest of his now utterly unnatural life I figure we should exchange numbers’.” Stiles asks flailing one arm as he puts the orange juice back, thirst induced anger fully quenched.

“Something like that.” Derek just says. 

Stiles stares at the werewolf for a moment or two before sighing and shaking his head. Figures. He can see Derek doing the whole thing with his hunchy shoulders and his scowling face of eternal guilt. Stiles’ Dad probably ate it up with a side of threating all werewolf livelihood if Stiles was harmed. 

“You know I was lying when I said I was going to be babysat all day, right?” Stiles says after a few moments pass.

“You weren’t,” Derek says getting up from his chair. Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Your heart skipped a beat, but I am staying here.” The werewolf said and Stiles couldn’t groan fast enough. 

He had a babysitter. A grouchy supernatural babysitter who was even more upset at Stiles than usual. 

“So what are we getting pepperoni or cheese pizza?” Derek pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Bacon, ham, and pineapple.” Stiles snaps, grabbing the phone and pressing the number in from memory.

…

Derek overstays his welcome. Stiles didn’t except any less, but he’s still irritated when he has to share his cinnamon sticks with the werewolf. They watch a couple episodes of _x files_ and then Stiles turns around and announces he’s going to bed. It’s about 3 in the morning and Stiles has to practically shove Derek to the door just to see him out. He promises to go straight to sleep, and to not risk his life, and then and only then does Derek leave.

Stiles is fairly sure the werewolf stays to lurk in the Camaro, which was in the driveway that morning, and make sure Stiles is actually sleeping. So he does. Not before setting an alarm for 4, however.

He hasn’t forgotten about the red eyes he remembers blaring over him when he was pulled from the lake, before he blacked out. He also hasn’t forgotten how the twins eyes turned a lovely shade of bright cerulean when the alpha pack left, and they decided to be Scott’s betas. Ethan didn’t pull Stiles from that lake, and he has a very good idea who did.


	8. Motel rooms

Somehow Stiles manages to drive to the motel without dozing off, although it was harder than he thought to wake up to his alarm. Who knew nearly drowning could take it out of you so much?

“You,” Stiles says as soon as Peter opens the door. The werewolf wears a shocked and surprised expression that would be amusing if Stiles weren’t a man on a mission. “It was you.”

“What was me?” Peter asks, taking a step back and letting Stiles into the room.

“At the lake, with the drowning and the red eyes and the claw marks in my shoulder! That was you!” Stiles emphatically pulls at his collar to show off the marks he had been careful to keep away from prying werewolf eyes.

“Oh, yes, I see you mean when I saved you from being drowned and eaten by a kelpie.” Peter drawls and Stiles just presses his lips together and narrows his eyes. 

Peter glances to the teen, his own expression falling flat. Dead around the eyes if Stiles is being completely accurate. Actually, actually everything considered the look on Peter’s face is semi terrifying. His lips are almost… almost frowning. It’s a bit like Stiles’ father’s disapproving frown mixed with Derek’s super scowly thing he does when he gets the wrong milkshake, or not enough garlic sauce with his cheese sticks. And… and Stiles is thinking about this too deeply and Peter’s nose is doing this little flaring thing and, and, Stiles swallows deeply.

“Stiles what were you thinking?” Peter says and his voice does this gravely serious thing that Stiles has never actually heard and he finds himself swallowing again.

“Can I not get the _don’t go out alone_ talk from you too?” Stiles says.

“Stiles. What were you thinking?” Peter repeats himself and before Stiles can open his mouth to spit out some classic remark like _you’re not my father_ , Peter is continuing. “Five people die, you ask for information about a kelpie, I tell you it lives underwater, you go marching through the preserve alone-“

“I wasn’t alone!” Stiles blurts.

“I’m sorry, I meant without a suitable werewolf escort. Which excludes the twins, Issac, and generally Scott.” Peter spreads a smile on his face but it seems tense. 

“So… without you or Derek.” Stiles almost groans. Peter gives a heavy sigh and closes his eyes for a moment in which Stiles is 99% sure he is rolling them. 

“Stiles, Do you lack common sense or simply the gene that makes you value your life?” Peter asks and Stiles hears his teeth click shut more than he actually feels it. 

“I wasn’t—“ He starts.

“Thinking. You weren’t thinking Stiles.” Peter cuts the boy off. 

“Ok, Jeez, so it was a stupid idea. Stop lecturing me,” Stiles snaps and before he can even blink Peter has surged forward to grab his shirt collar and hoist him up onto his tippy toes, blue eyes nearly burning red.

“I am not lecturing you, I am—“ The words seem to get caught in Peter’s throat but he doesn’t put Stiles down, just looks over the boy’s face. “You might have half a brain Stiles, but it is half a brain more than anyone else in Scott’s little pack.” Peter nearly spits the words out.

“Excepting Lydia,” Peter adds and Stiles glares. “Who does not have the incredibly obstinate character flaw of completely loyalty you have, which means you are the only thing keeping that pack from making everything worse.”

“Don’t hurt yourself Peter, that was almost a compliment,” Stiles hisses out between his teeth. Peter stares at him before baring his teeth in a rather threatening way.

“Don’t think I’m going to risk my neck to save your life again,” Peter snares. 

“Don’t think you’ll have to,” Stiles replies. “Now put me down before you ruin another one of my awesome t-shirts with your big bad wolf claws.”

Peter manages one last up close and personal look of distaste before easing the teen back onto his feet. He draws his hands away and with a flick retracts his claws. Stiles himself wavers on his feet a little, a rush coming to his head. Which, if he thinks about it is probably from the whole not sleeping during the middle of the night after nearly getting killed thing.

“Might persuade you to get something a little less… thread bare.” Peter reaches to pluck at the shoulder of Stiles’ shirt, a teasing tone coming to his voice. The teen waves the hand away, and shoots Peter a glare. The look is undermined by the loud whining growl Stiles’ stomach gives.

Peter’s eyebrows jump and Stiles slaps a hand to his stomach.

“I don’t suppose you brought chicken cacciatore with you when you came to yell at me for doing a good thing?” the werewolf grins when Stiles doesn’t respond. “There’s a vending machine around the corner, come on.”

Stiles stares as Peter moves past him to open the door and hold it. Peter raises his eyebrows and Stiles just throws his arms out in one exhaustive sigh. He leaves the motel room, and Peter falls into stride beside him. 

Stiles expects the motel vending machine to be the oldest in the world, he doesn’t know why, and hey the thing isn’t new but it’s not from the Jurassic era and it’s got flaming hot Cheetos.

“You could have just given me a couple of bucks,” Stiles says punching in the code for his chips. “I don’t need an escort for snacks,” He looks back over his shoulder to the werewolf who raises his eyebrows.

“And risk you getting behind your wheel, tired and hungry?” Peter smirks. “Now what kind of adult would I be if I let you do a thing like that?”

Stiles scowls and jabs at a package of powdered donuts through the vending machine glass. Peter just gives a soft huff of laughter and leans in to press the button combinations.

Stiles makes Peter carry the snacks back to the room. He means to claim the table and chairs, but Peter dumps the snacks on the bed and Stiles dives after them because not only is he a teenage boy, he’s a starving teenage boy.

He pops a package of chocolate chip cookies and stuffs a few into his mouth. Peter just rolls his eyes and crosses the motel. He tosses remotes at Stiles before disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door.

Stiles stares at the door for a moment before turning his attention to the TV. He scrolls through the channels and listens to the toilet flush before popping open a second bag. He’s got a mouthful of Cheetos when Peter comes out of the bathroom.

“Most people chew their food,” Peter drawls and Stiles pulls a face. The werewolf picks up a donut package and splits it open as Stiles swallows enough to get out a reply.

“What’s the harm, you’ll just give me CPR seeing as you’ve contracted this new found sense of heroism,” Stiles waves one hand as he speaks.

Peter pauses in pulling a donut from the pack, he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. 

“I’m not sure I’m entirely opposed to that idea,” Peter hums. “You do have very nice lips.”

Stiles chokes and Peter gives a sharp cacophony of laughter.

“Your hilarious,” Stiles manages to get out when he isn’t hacking on snack food. Peter just hums and pops a powdered donut into his mouth carefully before tossing the open package at the teen. Stiles catches it and glares at the werewolf.

Stiles doesn’t know why he stays, except that Peter is offering him loads of junk food, and free reign of the tv, and he’s incredibly hungry and sleepy. He gets through both packages of Cheetos, a thing of cookies, and half a pack of powdered donuts before he starts nodding off.

“You know,” Stiles mumbles, brushing powdered sugar and crumbs off his shirt. He shifts on the bed, dropping his head back to look at Peter. “This shirt was my mom’s.”

Peter doesn’t say anything. He does give that little infuriating smile of his and leans forward from his seat at the table to take the half full package of donuts off the bed. Stiles gives his own smile back. He needs to go back to his house. He needs to curl up in his bed and sleep. He figures he’ll close his eyes for a minute, just to rest enough so he can make the drive home.

…

Stiles wakes up first to a wet patch under his cheek where he’s been drooling, and secondly to find Peter Hale sitting in the chair at the table reading.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks, voice raspy.

“7 am.” Peter replies, turning a page perfectly. Stiles swears to god, the people he surrounds himself with practice these things in the mirror.

Stiles groans, and throws an arm over his eyes. He lays there for a moment before rolling over and pushing himself off the bed.

“Great,” Stiles sighs, glancing down to his sock feet and then around the motel room. He must have kicked his shoes off in the middle of the night.

Peter motions to the floor on the other side of the bed and Stiles climbs over it to find his shoes. He pulls them on and glances up to Peter who is not so much reading as watching him.

“You didn’t sit there the whole night?” Stiles asks.

“I am a gentleman, after all.” Peter says and Stiles frowns at the words. The werewolf stands, snapping his book shut and striding towards the back of the motel room. “Stay out of the preserve,” He calls out to Stiles before disappearing into the bathroom.

Stiles just rolls his eyes, grabs an unopened pack of chocolate chip cookies off the table and leaves.

…

He manages to catch another hour of sleep or so at home before Scott calls him and wakes him up. The pack is meeting up for brunch, and that would freak Stiles out immensely except that he’s got enough time to take a shower beforehand. That and he’s maybe partially still stuck in his food coma from last night because other than knowing he has to shower off the scent of Peter and Motel, Stiles really isn’t freaking out that much. He should be, he knows he should be, because he just slept in Peter’s hotel room. That is enough to freak out about. Tack on the fact that Stiles still hasn’t told anyone Peter’s back, and that Peter is an alpha… maybe, possibly, Stiles still isn’t sure.

He flips the shower on and shimmies out his clothes. Shower time for Stiles is usually also day dream about married life with Lydia time. And hey, he’s a teenage boy and in his day dreams their both consenting adults so if it’s a little more than pg-13, well, can you blame him?

Today, however, Stiles is not having those exact thoughts. Mostly he’s having no thoughts at all but how nice the warm water feels on his skin, or that he must be careful to actually use soap in his hair. Sometimes though those thoughts turn to the lingering taste of powdered sugar his tongue chases across his lips, or the sound of pages being turned.

Stiles chalks it up to lack of any real good sleep, and fatigue from… everything.

He has to rush to get dressed, once he sees the time. He’s almost late, he’s going to be late to this pack meeting.

He is late to the pack meeting.

Stiles pretends not to notice that everyone, _literally_ everyone, in the pack is staring at him as he walks in the doors and the couple of steps to the two tables smashed together. He does notice, with some surprised that Danny is there. Of course Danny’s there. That’s Stiles own fault isn’t it.

He definitely doesn’t grimace when the only seat available is at the end of one table, stuck between Derek and Ethan.

Stiles sits, hands shoved in his pockets and pointedly ignoring the complete silence of the pack.

“What’ll it be honey? Milk, coffee, orange juice? Your friends have ordered, but you can take your time if you want to look over the menu.” The waitress, who must have followed him to his seat like a shadow, offers out the laminated trifold cheerily.

“Coffee, and I’m not hungry,” Stiles says. His voice still sounds like he’s swallowed a whole parking lot of gravel, and how had he really not noticed that this morning in the motel? He tries not to see the wince Scott gives or the way Derek’s jaw sets.

“Are you sure that’s really a good idea after…?” Allison asks and Stiles stares at her because really? Did news travel that fast in the pack?

“Decaf, and he’ll have what I’m having.” Derek says shooting the confused waiter his stupid innocent kid smile. She takes it for an answer and whisks away before Stiles can complain about how he _really can_ order his own food.

“Before anyone asks, I’m fine.” Stiles tries to clear the weight of the silence at least a little.

“You’re an enormous idiot.” Lydia replies. Stiles opens his mouth to rebute that, or to tell her to lay off, or something when Derek cuts in.

“We’re not here to talk about that,” the oldest wolf folds his arms across his chest.

“That’s a relief.” Stiles breathes out.

“Stiles knows what he did was wrong.” Derek says and Stiles nearly falls out of his seat. 

He manages to gasp out a _what?_ Staring at Derek as if the werewolf had grown a second head because come on. What kind of judgy adult shit was that? At least Stiles had done _something_. 

“And now we know where the kelpie lives.” Scott is either deaf and blind or pretending he can’t see the absolute aghast look on Stiles face.

“So we’re going to go kill it?” Isaac asks at the exact moment the waitress comes back with Stiles’ coffee. 

She stares at them a little wary and Allison is the first to speak up. 

“We’re part of an online gaming community that battles mythological creatures.” The hunter smiles shy and sweet and the lady just nods her head before throwing a judging look that, for once, is not aimed at Stiles but the 20-something year old beside him. Derek merely stares at his own coffee.

“You know, that excuse is still not funny.” Stiles mutters when the waitress is out of earshot.

“Didn’t you tell me that before?” Lydia asks and Allison just pulls her smile a little wider.

“We’re not going to kill it.” Scott says bringing the focus back and looking to Isaac who, conveniently, sits at his right hand side.

“Why not? I mean it _attacked_ Stiles. Our pack.” Isaac says. “That’s not friendly.”

Stiles feels like he’s been punched to the gut. Isaac is defending him. Siding with his initial plan for the creature. Maybe Isaac should have been the one Stiles took into the preserve with him. Maybe Stiles should cut Isaac a little slack for the whole stealing his best friend feeling… _nah_.

Everyone, apparently, takes that as a cue to stare at Stiles.

“Hey, I’m not gonna complain. I wanted to kill it in the first place, remember?” Stiles throws his hands up in surrender.

“It did attack us first.” Derek says glancing to Scott.

“It had no way of knowing Stiles was pack, I mean. We can’t know for certain that its intention was to attack one of us.” Scott says almost quietly. He glances to Stiles.

Stiles just reaches to grab creamers out of the bowl at the center of the table and pull the foil tops off the plastic cups a little too forcefully before splashing the cream into his coffee.

“So, we still plan to sit down and sing fucking kumbaya with it first?” He asks and the silence that falls over the table is rival to that when he first arrived. Dead, heavy, waiting for something or someone to snap.

“Another thing we have to look into is who saved Stiles. We combed the woods last night and found nothing.” Scott resumes the meeting, but not before sending the saddest, most terribly hurt big brown puppy dog eyes Stiles way. 

“Do you remember who it was?” Allison asks frowning at Stiles.

He meets her eyes for a few seconds before he’s shrugging and staring at the curl of cream in his dark coffee.

“No. I… thought it was Ethan.” Stiles glances to the teen beside him, the confused face. “But I guess I was wrong.”

“I don’t see why we need to worry about it at all.” Ethan breaks his silence. “So someone saved the damsel in distress. That’s usually a good thing, so unless we’re going to be giving them a medal of honor, why care?” The ex-alpha huffs and looks to Scott pointedly.

Stiles makes sure to pick his coffee mug up in a way that displays his middle finger prominently in Ethan’s direction. 

“It’s a point,” Isaac raises his brows as he looks to Scott. The alpha just shakes his head with a small sigh.

“Fine. Isaac and I are going to see if we can find the Kelpie this afternoon and arrange a meeting with it. For all of us.” Scott says, looking to Stiles carefully. “Except Stiles.”

His jaw drops, and he manages to spill coffee in his lap too.

“It already sees you as prey,” Derek says beside him, but Stiles is too busy patting at hot coffee on his crotch with paper napkins to reply or be anything but aghast and angry.

The waitress brings their food.

Derek managed to order a whole 8 ounce steak, two eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy. Which subsequently is also what Stiles ordered since Derek had requested he have the same. Apart from a few jibes at how steak is not, absolutely not, breakfast food Stiles was intent to put as big a dent in the food as he could. His appetite had resurfaced when the bacon had arrived. In a house under a strict low cholesterol diet, he wasn’t about to turn down real bacon.

Although the tension hadn’t really gone away, the pack was able to eat breakfast in peace. Stiles did manage to give everyone else a few pointers to what the kelpie looked like in human form, and how to tell that it was indeed not an actual human. _Seriously, its skin is like gasoline spills in the rain and why am I the only one who’s ever looked at those?_

When they left it was in small groups, and as always Derek was stuck with the bill. Not that he ever complained. Stiles had a niggling idea that Derek was just glad to not be eating alone, in his loft, on two day old KFC. Stiles knew things, ok. He’d done some snooping. That, and Derek didn’t really understand that receipts went in the trash.

Stiles ended up being last to leave besides Derek. A move he made mostly to avoid the guilty looks and we should talk vibes Scott was putting off.

“I have your jacket still.” Stiles watches as Derek shoves the receipt in his pocket as they slip out of the diner.

“Keep it.” Derek shrugs and Stiles nearly trips on his own feet when he flails and stares at the man.

“Until I’m over again.” Derek adds with a roll of his eyes. “I have more.”

Stiles gives a huff of laughter, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Y’know, I always figured if we opened your closet it would be like ten of the same jacket.” He can’t help but grin a little at the words, watching as Derek casts an awfully judging side eye at him.

They pause before their cars and Stiles rocks on his feet because he can, and he’s still got a lot of anger and annoyance stored up at Scott and the pack. Mostly Scott.

“They’re different.” Derek says.

“Please tell me at least one has fringe.” Stiles grins wider at the aghast and somewhat horrified face Derek makes. If he’s honest with himself it feels good to just… smile. Make a few jokes. It feels easy, and with Derek of all people. Who, sure, ok, he’s not the worst person in the world and he doesn’t have a heart of stone or no sense of humor. But he is grumpy. He does make himself _way_ unapproachable most of the time. And maybe it’s because of the day before when Derek “babysat” him and they shared their mutual love for Dana Scully. 

"You really don't know who it was?" Derek asks and Stiles is almost grateful he doesn't use the words "saved" or "rescued".

"Hey maybe it just let me go. Decided I was too cute to eat." Stiles says after shaking his head. He pairs it with a smile and Derek gives a snort through his nose that could only be... was it really... laughter?

"Doubt it," the werewolf says, and Stiles opens his mouth prepared to be valiantly aghast for his own sake.

“He’s worried about you,” Derek says changing the subject and Stiles doesn’t have to ask to know who, but still. Derek Hale giving him emotional advice? Did the world end? Could pigs fly?

“I’m fine.” Stiles shrugs as if to emphasize the point. As if to emphasize a different point his voice breaks as he says it, crackling and sounding very much like someone who just nearly drowned two nights before.

Derek presses his lips thin and Stiles starts to hurriedly look for his keys because there is definitely something else on the werewolves mind. He finds them and turns to the jeep just as Derek clears his throat.

“About the research,” Derek says and Stiles groans but doesn’t stop from turning back.

“What?” Stiles asks. “Do you want me to turn in documented sources now too?” 

Derek’s face shifts from open surprise to closed off frustration quickly. Stiles rolls his eyes almost more at himself than the wolf.

“I just don’t want you feeling like you have to do everything on your own.” Derek grits out like it’s painful, before rounding the front of the Camaro and opening the door with a sharp jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Baaa-aack!  
> Seriously though, sorry for the 2 and half month hiatus there. Why was I out so long? In short: Mono, Schoolwork, Trying to work out graduation, holidays.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who's left kudos!! I'm glad that I can produce something enjoyable and entertaining for you! and a big thank you to silo, Joseph, jhera35, matron, and EASTDOG3 for leaving comments!! As well as all my lovely "someones". I do appreciate all and any feed back what so ever!!


	9. Like, Snails

Scott and Isaac don’t find the Kelpie the next day, or the one after that. In fact, there’s no sign of the thing for the next week and a half and the whole thing has been officially deemed as over. Done. The kelpie must have _moved_ on. Stiles, of course, has his doubts. Nothing has ever just moved on in Beacon Hills. Nothing supernatural has ever been _simple_.

Scott tells him to stop being pessimistic. Lydia tells him he’s paranoid. Derek agrees and Stiles swears, he _swears_ , that when the wolf goes out for pizza that night it takes him a little too long and there’s at least one twig in his hair suggesting he patrolled the preserve. They have to get their own pizza, because the pizza guy stopped delivering since he had to bring twelve pizzas up five flights of stairs. Another reason listed on the sheet of why Derek needs a new elevator or a new loft. It’s posted besides the door.

Just as things are starting to settle down, a harpy decides to roost in the old church steeple. It doesn’t actually prey on anyone in Beacon Hills, but the smell from the old church becomes so bad they decide they _have_ to do something about it.

Stiles consults the bestiary, and begrudgingly but willingly calls Derek over before he does so. They sit in his room munching on lucky charms and reading until the detailed description of carrion eating and regurgitating for youth comes up and both teenager and werewolf lose their appetite. The bestiary provides a wealth of information, how to kill it (although Scott has said they are going to reason with it first), what it likes to eat, where it likes to live, and even information about the reproductive cycle that Stiles could have gone his whole life without knowing.

“Please, for my sake, if werewolves also nest their children in, well, _nests_ made of their own vomit and shit. Please don’t tell me.” Stiles informs Derek. “Actually, don’t even let me in the house.”

Derek grunts, and tips Stiles chair over, which the teenager assumes is a sign of reluctant amusement.

Despite the well detailed entry in the bestiary, Stiles still finds himself calling Peter up the night before the pack is to go evacuate Beacon Hill’s newest tenant.

“Harpies,” Peter hums, and Stiles can almost see him twirling his mustache as he does it. Not that it’s that long. Hopefully it’s never that long. “I think I have something.”

It’s all the answer Stiles needs. He hangs up, throws shoes on and pulls his lacrosse hoodie over his t-shirt, before hurrying out to his car. Quietly, so not to wake Dad.

It turns out Peter has a Xeroxed copy of an excerpt of some old Greek Historians travel journal. 

Stiles takes it from him, glances at the rough library copier printing job and plunks into a seat on the bed. He glances over the first few lines before looking up to find Peter watching him.

“What?” He asks.

The werewolf just shrugs, eyebrows lifting in a way that holds sass and nonchalance. Peter takes a beer from the mini fridge, shuts it with his foot and leans against the wall as Stiles goes back to reading.  
The paper provides no new advice, but a thrilling short story about a sailor capturing a young beautiful harpy and keeping it in a gilded cage on the deck of the ship. The creature barely ate, and when the solider discovered she preferred the rotted heads of the fish to the more palatable food and drink the soldiers provided, he had her immediately thrown overboard.

Stiles ended up reading the story out loud to a snickering Peter, who had a few tasteful remarks about the soldier. Most pointedly sexually, and one particular jibe that stood out to Stiles about the futility of trying to tame a wild creature.

When he left, Peter saw him out with smirking reminder that Stiles owed him, preferably baked goods. The teen merely rolled his eyes and hoped he could get enough sleep for the next day.

Since the harpy hadn’t been hostile, and they weren’t approaching it to kill it, Scott had no problem with Stiles coming along. After all it was mostly a polite please go, and bird shit clean up mission. Although, no amount of sleep could have prepared Stiles for this amount of bird shit.

“I think,” Stiles nearly had to shout in the cavernous old church hall. “Instead of trying to move all of this, how about we just set the whole thing on fire?” 

“Please, no.” Isaac shouts back. “Remember the last time you set something on fire?”

“No one got hurt?” Stiles replies. “No one werewolf or human,”

“Please, for the love of god, could you keep it down in there,” an older female voice echoed through the empty building and Stiles and Isaac both froze. 

Derek simply huffed, and pushed past Stiles to stare up into the rafters and call out to the harpy with more manners than he usually could muster. Apparently it wasn’t enough for Scott who had to call out on his own.

In the end, the harpy was more the crazy old cat lady down the road, and less a carrion eating harbinger of death. Actually, she was simply taking an extended stay on her way back from visiting her newly hatched niece-- which, vomit and shit nests. _Ew_ — and had found beacon hills to be a pleasing little town.

Derek had jabbed Stiles in the ribs, _hard_ , when he’d started to mutter about not being here long enough. Apparently, keeping up good relations with other supernatural creatures was a thing. Or, could be a thing. Scott mentioned wanting to ask Deaton about it.

In the end, the church was demolished by city officials due to being “unsanitary” and a risk to public health. Stiles simply threw out his clothes from that day, which never quite lost the spoiled milk and old blood smell of harpy. 

In the weeks that followed Beacon Hills had several encounters with the supernatural. It seemed Peter and Deaton had been right in warning them that Nemeton reawakening would bring in more strange happenings and creatures. Most however, seemed easy enough to handle. A troll looking for a cave, who smashed a few cars and maybe a cat, but no one human. A herd of Unicorn, which Stiles was still trying to wrap his brain around. A whole _herd_ of Unicorn. Goblins, and werecats – which seemed to follow the old idea that cats and dogs don’t get along – even a chupacabra. That one, had been the hardest to handle.

Each time a new monster cropped up Stiles had to flip through the bestiary with Derek practically breathing down his neck. Each time he drove out in the dead of night with whatever he’d recently made for dinner in hand and listened to Peter’s stories, or read the old books the werewolf provided.

He never questioned Peter about the red eyes that haunted his dreams some nights. He wanted to figure it out on his own, because figuring it out would most likely mean the end of Peter’s help and the beginning of whatever dark horror Peter had brought back with him and Stiles was trying to keep at bay. Because Peter couldn’t have just shown up for the sake of it. Stiles knew something was amiss… and after all, this was the power hungry ex-alpha.

“Chicken fettuccine,” Stiles holds the Tupperware out as Peter opens the door. There was a one eyed basilisk in Beacon hills. It hadn’t hurt anyone, but several wild animals and a few beloved pets had already been made into cement garden fixtures. No one wanted the next stone-ifed corpse found to be a human.

Peter takes the Tupperware with that infuriating smirk of his, and moves aside to let Stiles in the motel room. It’s one of the cleaner days for the whole room, and Stiles glances around before spying the old leather bound book on the bed. He beelines for it.

Peter’s small throat clearing noises catches Stiles attention and he looks up to see the werewolf holding up the saran wrapped half loaf that had been sitting on the top of the Tupperware. Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Banana nut bread.” Stiles snaps the book up off the bed covers. “Dad had me take our Neighbor Mrs. Dottie a loaf. I took half, and figured,” Stiles shrugs rather than finishes his sentence and watches as Peter’s look slips back into his usual smug expression.

“It will be our little secret,” Peter purrs.

Stiles, after having spent a near two months of his summer dealing with the werewolf, can’t be bothered to pay attention to Peter’s smallest attempts to get under his skin. Instead, he inspects the book in his hands. Old, bound in a pale thin leather that Stiles has never seen. The cord wrapped around it and keeping it shut looks like sinew. Something Stiles only recognizes after having spent a whole weekend cooped up in a cave on Beacon Hill preserve with Allison and Lydia. They’d had a camping trip, he’d come to warn them about a stiff-legged bear, a kind of Native American monster, that the pack thought was lurking in the area. It was. It found them. It couldn’t get in the cave to get them because it couldn’t bend its knees and Allison had managed to find, trap and kill a rabbit that she used to make new arrows, along with the poles to the tent. Her other arrows having been lost trying to take down the bear.

Stiles remembers that weekend as being filled with a lot of fainting while Allison hacked up some poor defenseless rabbit. If he had avoided her for a few days after that, well you couldn’t blame him. Allison was scary with a bow and arrow, make her covered in blood and bits of bunny gore and well… Stiles was just glad he was awake to see the bear go down.

“What kind of leather is this?” Stiles asks looking up to see Peter whisking the Tupperware away to the microwave. “25 minutes on high, or the noodles get dried up,” Stiles adds.

“Human skin.” Peter replies easily.

The book doesn’t drop from Stiles hands so much as he throws it at the ground. He stares at Peter as the wolf presses the time into the microwave.

“You’re just joking,” Stiles says slack jawed. “You’re just trying to gross me out. Nice. Good one.” He says, rolling his eyes and bending to pick the book back up. Sure that Peter is lying. It’s like peter to try and rile Stiles up at any chance he can.

“I’m really not.” Peter turns to raise his eyebrows at Stiles.

The teen aborts his attempt to pick the book back up, and gives a whole body shiver. 

“That is just- _really_ \- who even does that?” Stiles complains loudly as he storms towards the bathroom to get a handful of tissues.

“Monks from Cyrene,” Peter hums. 

Stiles sticks his head out of the bathroom to give Peter the dirtiest and most confused look he can. He will admit, he thinks his facial expressions are getting clearer given all his practice with the undead werewolf.

“Ancient Libya,” Peter drawls as if he’s bored.

“I thought Basilisk’s were Greek?” Stiles exits with enough tissue in hand to carefully scoop the book up without touching any of the cover. He uses the same method to unwind the sinew, which he tries very hard not to think about having once been someone’s tendon, and sits on the edge of the bed.

“I will always wonder how it is you got a B in geography.” Peter purrs. The microwave behind him dings and Stiles sticks his tongue out at the werewolf’s back as he retrieves his dinner.

“This is in a different language,” Stiles wrinkles his nose staring at the pages filled with what looks more like scribbles than words to him.

“oh yes, the translation,” Peter says, and pulls a rather plain looking notebook from his bag. Stiles glares at him.

“You couldn’t have just given that to me first?” the teen asks grabbing the book from Peter’s hands and leafing through it.

“I wanted to see your reaction to the other one.” Peter smirks. “It was as entertaining as I’d hoped for.”

Stiles just mouths the words distastefully, pulling a face, before he goes back to letting his eyes skim the first page.

“It’s a snail?” He asks looking up, only to have his own confusion slip away as he catches sight of Peter’s face. The werewolf’s watching him, lips together but not drawn tight. There’s something of a question in that look.

“What?” Stiles asks. Peter shrugs.

“I was just wondering when you started reading the books here and not running away with them.” Peter picks up his Tupperware and goes to sit at the table, spinning his fork in the noodles. Stiles just rolls his eyes and looks back to the book.

He can’t help it though. Peter’s question gets to him. When did he start sticking around the motel to read the pieces Peter gave him, rather than leaving to do so in the privacy of his own bedroom, away from a meddling and sketchy wolf? When did the motel room stop feeling entirely dangerous? Because if Stiles was honest with himself, he didn’t feel as if he was in any grave danger in the room. Not like he had when he first visited to get the diary about the fairies.

Stiles is shaken out of his thoughts when Peter takes the book from his lap. He flails before rounding on the werewolf with an open mouth and a prepared insult.

“The Basilisk in Cyrene differs from it’s Grecian cousin,” Peter starts to read.

“I _don’t_ need to be read to like a child. I can do so myself, thank you very much,” Stiles snaps.

“Hardly,” Peter purrs only making Stiles face go even more sour. “You were on the same page for the last five minutes with that glazed look Scott gets when he’s thinking about Allison.” 

Stiles frowns further.

“How do you know he still makes that face?” he asks.

“Is Allison still alive?” Peter says.

“Touche.” Stiles huffs out a sigh and adjusts his seat on the bed. “And I was not making _that_ look.” 

Peter’s lips just twitch in a smirk, as he goes to twirl his fork in the hand not holding the book.

“Deny it, but we both know you find me _dashingly_ handsome.” Peter says, the words more like a hum in his chest. Stiles scoffs.

“In your dreams.” The teen mutters. Peter’s blue eyes just glint, and Stiles holds a hand out for the book to be returned to.

Peter is… Stiles wouldn’t say attractive. Really, he’d never say it to Peter’s face. Ever. The werewolf had an ego that didn’t need to be fueled, let alone stroked. It wasn’t like any of it was due to Peter’s own hand either. It was Hale genetics. Chiseled features, piercing eyes, and enough of a taste of danger to be a fabulous mystery. Derek had it. Cora had it. Peter had it. Stiles couldn’t count on one hand how many times waitresses and waiters alike had swooned over Derek. 

It probably also had something to do with being a werewolf. Erica had gotten obscenely more attractive when Derek turned her. And Isaac… ok Stiles didn’t like the dude, but he didn’t _hate_ him. Isaac was a good looking guy, so maybe that’s why it stung so much that he’d replaced Stiles in Scotts best friend slot. 

“Read it aloud,” Peter hands over the book and Stiles doesn’t think to question that strange demand. He simply does as he’s told because it means a lot less fighting and a lot more answers to how to kill this thing. 

A lot of the book summarizes what Stiles found in Wikipedia articles when he and Derek went digging. Its gaze either kills you or turns you to stone, which ultimately kills you. Nothing likes it. It can kill plants. No new information on how to kill it either. A rooster or a weasel have to fight the thing.

“Nothing I didn’t know.” Stiles says closing the book and sighing. “This is like the third time too. Are you just stringing me along to get free food?” he asks.

Peter looks taken aback, which stiles is sure is only a front.

“Stiles, please, if I were to string you along it would be for something much more important.” The werewolf says as he stands and crosses the room to rummage in his plastic silverware drawer. 

Stiles bites his tongue. Peter has a point. It’s more likely he’s continuing to offer information just to keep Stiles busy and give whatever monster they pack is currently fighting more time to take one of them out. Or Something.

“Besides, you didn’t know it was this specific type of Basilisk beforehand.” Peter says.

“That’s the kind of thing you can just text me,” Stiles pulls at his hair a little in frustration before it dawns on him. “Wait, how did _you_ know it was this kind? I didn’t—I mean I hadn’t put the slime trails and dead plants together before this book!”

Peter smirks and Stiles frowns.

“You’ve come into Beacon Hills. You’re coming into the city. Why are you coming into the city?” He practically shouts and Peter just rolls his eyes.

“I’m not getting anywhere near Beacon Hills, the creature came through here first.” The werewolf crossed back to the table. “And when you called I assumed it had been going towards rather than away from Beacon Hills.”

Stiles cheeks do not flush, and he does not feel a sour bubble of guilt pop in his stomach. This is Peter Hale, he’s allowed to be suspicious of Peter Hale. He has to be.

“Banana Bread?” Peter offers and Stiles looks up from where he had been burying his head in his hands to see the man offering a bite of what Stiles knows from firsthand experience to be a delicious loaf of Banana nut bread.

He reaches out to take it and Peter draws his hand back. Like he did the first time he offered Stiles food, what feels like ages ago. Like he wants to feed Stiles.

The teen glares, and Peter only gives that soft breathy laugh of his before he offers the piece again and this time lets Stiles take it from him.

“Really Stiles, why would I text when you’re much more amusing in person.” Peter sighs. “There’s an x files marathon on the sci fi channel right now.”

The words are followed by a pointed look to the remote and Stiles picks it up before the questions stirring in his brain make him pause.

“You like the x files?” he asks skeptical.

“Hardly.” Peter pulls his book from the nightstand. “Derek used to pine over Mulder and Scully when he was a kid. I can only assume it’s something you’d equally find amusing.” He sits on the bed, opposite the side Stiles has already claimed and looks to the teen gaping at him.

“ _And_ Mulder?” Stiles asks and Peter just gives that laugh of his. The one that’s sharp and soft all at once, slipping into breathy chuckles.

Stiles never gets a response, and doesn’t pressure Peter for anything more. Stiles doesn’t want to think about it, really. He’s waiting for college to have that particular crisis of identity, and he’s not sure he can keep waiting if Derek’s around him shirtless all the time and apparently not entirely straight.

Instead Stiles settles back on the cushions and throws himself into the fictional supernatural crisis that don’t require his help to fix. If he ends up leaning a little on Peter’s shoulder as the werewolf is engrossed in _Stiff_ by Mary Roach, well he’s tired and Peter’s there and warm and will take the remote away from him when he starts to drift off.


	10. Coco Manticore

It’s not the first time Stiles has found himself waking up in Peter’s motel. It’s not the second time either, and _that’s_ embarrassing.

“What time is it?” He asks wiping at his mouth in case there’s any drool and pushing himself up to see Peter sipping Starbucks and doing a crossword as if he’s a perfectly normal human being. Strike that, Stiles has actually never seen a normal human being do a newspaper crossword outside movies.

“Nearly noon,” Peter says in that slow, uncaring drawl of his.

“Shit.” Stiles gasps, braining scrambling. He was supposed to be at Scott’s an hour ago to talk about basilisks and the plan of attack. “Shit.” Stiles says again.

He shoves himself off the bed and disappears into the bathroom because first things first, he needs to take a leak. He looks like hell, bags under his eyes, pale from not getting enough time being a normal kid at the pool or on the lacrosse field in the summer.

Stiles throws water on his face and tries not to blame his best friend too much for the current mess Stiles life is.

“Can I take the book with me?” Stiles asks as he pops out of the bathroom and starts searching for his shoes. “I’m already late and – aw god—ok, I need a shower, I need to—I can’t show up smelling like you. Shit.” Stiles tugs at his hair idly as he spins around the room looking for his left shoe, the right having been under the bed.

Peter ceases the boys spinning by ripping something out of a magazine and shoving it in the boy’s chest. Stiles frowns and looks to the glossy picture and the fold over flap for a perfume sample.

“This is women’s?” He complains, but nevertheless pries the paper flap open and rubs the sample over his chest and armpits. As well as his hair for good measure. It might not be a shower, but hopefully it’s enough to not scream _Peter_ or _betrayal_.

His left shoe happens to be near the table Peter has settled back into a seat at, and Stiles hops into it while pointing at the grande coffee cup in the werewolf’s hand.

“Next time you’re getting me one of those,” he says. “Vanilla Latte with caramel, cocoa powder on top.” Then Stiles is out the door. He’s only gone for a second before he’s flying back in and grabbing the book on the Basilisk Snail of Cyrene off the television.

“Great, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on today. Cool, now I just need to find a cock.” Stiles says as he whirls back towards the door.

Peter’s eyebrows jump up in the most peculiar and judging fashion and Stiles is quick to look at the man and bite out.

“A rooster. Jeez. Or a weasel, would a ferret work?” Stiles leaves without so much as a goodbye. Then again, he’s never been in the habit of giving Peter any farewell greeting.

It turns out a ferret does work.

Stiles is more than relieved at this. Beacon Hills isn’t the most Urban of cities, but it’s not like anyone around has a farm and a rooster. There is a pet shop, however. A few actually. 

As it turns out, tracking down the killer snail isn’t even hard. Poisonous slime trails be praised. In fact, it’s mostly a waiting game. Which gives the pack some time to catch their breath and sleep. Not Stiles, however, who gets the third degree about the book from Derek. Uhm, Libraries, Duh? Is not an answer the werewolf seems to appreciate?

Nor does anyone seem to appreciate Stiles’ last minute eau de magazine.

“What? It’s- It’s perfume. Something or another.” Stiles plucks at his shirt and gives a sniff before wrinkling his nose at the mix of floral notes, musk, and old motel. “I was shopping.”

“For perfume?” Lydia asks with one eyebrow raising. Either she’s judging his lie, and ok it’s not Stiles’s best, or his taste in perfume.

“Yeah,” Stiles plans to stick to the half-assed lie. “Can’t a guy buy perfume?”

“Who for?” Derek says and his voice is gruff, eyes still as piercing as when he accused Stiles of withholding information from him. _Not withholding, finding and forgetting._ Stiles had said.

“Obviously not his Mom.” Aiden huffs and Stiles doesn’t have time to reply or feel the full force of that sting before Ethan _and_ Lydia are elbowing the werewolf sharply. But ow, _dude_.

“Scott’s mom.” Stiles says.

“My mom?” Scott looks to his friend with wide eyes that are equal parts confused and surprised. Apparently napping is not going to happen.

“Yeah her birthdays coming up, June 13th.” Stiles says, the date coming to his mind and tongue quickly as he realizes, crap, Melissa McCall’s birthday is actually coming up soon. 

“No… that’s your dad’s birthday.” Scott gives Stiles that worried look of his and the teens stomach lurches.

“Shit, my dad’s birthday!” Stiles shouts. 

Thankfully the ferret chooses that moment to appear triumphantly from the basilisk hole with five-inch livid red and cream mottled snail shell. No one has time to question Stiles’ sad ability to forget his birthday, instead they’re busy congratulating the courageous ferret.

Stiles has to give it the furry thing, it takes guts to wander into a pit of sheer death to kill a monster. Not that Stiles has ever done that. He just provides help with the planning for others to do that. At least he’d offered to try and armor the poor thing. Not that anyone had listened.

“The ferret went home with Lydia,” Derek says as soon as Stiles enters his bedroom and _whoa, hey, warn a guy first!_

“After the stone-ifying of her dog Prada, I’m not surprised.” Stiles rolls his shoulders nonchalantly, although his heart is still trying to calm down from the abrupt scare that is walking into a room you expect to be empty, and that instead houses a lurking brooding werewolf. “Is that what you came to tell me? Because you could have texted.” Stiles says.

He bites back making a face at the thought that he’d said the same thing only hours earlier to Derek’s Uncle. It has nothing to do, whatsoever, with the fact that Stiles gets rarely any texts from Scott these days. Due to either Allison, or Isacc… Stiles wasn’t sure. He was sure it wasn’t because Scott was hanging out with him.

“No.” Derek grits out in his perfectly normal monosyllable way. Stiles just makes an _ok, what_ motion with his hands. Derek sighs.

“Where’d you get it?” Derek asks.

“The ferret?” Stiles can’t help but raise his eyebrows. “The pet store on 5th Avenue. Why, you want one? I mean, I never say you as the ferret kind of guy. Cat, maybe, ferret, no. We could get you a puppy!” Stiles can’t help but think the image of Derek with a little golden lab puppy is at once adorable and immensely hilarious.

“The book.” Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles gives a silent _oh_.

“I told you, from the back of the library. Crammed between books on different mythologies.” Stiles shrugs. It’s a lie, sort of. He had found a book crammed in a dark corner of the mythology section. It was on Pagan creatures, however, and not basilisk snails.

Derek either detects the lie, or is still suspicious of the one he no doubted detected this morning about perfume shopping for Mrs. McCall because he lurches forward to grab Stiles hand and haul it in the air. Derek presses his nose to the underside of Stiles’ bicep, inches above his armpit, and whoa seriously? Give a dude some space.

“You showered.” Derek says dropping Stiles arm.

“Uh yeah, I couldn’t even stand the smell of me.” Stiles rubs his wrist a little. “Lemme tell you Chanel Coco Mademoiselle is not a winner.”

Derek hardly buys the lie, but is confused enough to drop it, if his tilted eyebrows and halfhearted glare is anything to go by. Stiles is thankful for that, though the niggling suspicion breaks in his mind that Derek might think he’s started cross dressing. I mean, Derek knows about all of Stiles Drag Queen diva friends after all. And Friends they are, because at this point they’re the only thing normal about Stiles life. Not that he has a chance to see them much, underage and supernatural things getting in his way.

…

A manticore comes through town on the Sheriff’s birthday barreling through a china shop like, well, a manticore in china shop. The same specific china shop Stiles happens to be searching for a _#1 Sheriff_ mug in.

So Stiles finds himself screaming _come and get me you big stupid sloppy beast_ at the top of his lung in the store front and then bolting out the door. Manticore in full run behind him. Because, obviously. This is Stiles big fucked up supernatural life after all.

“What were you even trying to do?” Derek growls, tying the bandage around Stiles arm with a ferocity that, _ow_ , ok, that was unnecessary. 

“I don’t know Derek, maybe save some innocent bystanders from being gored to death?” Stiles can’t help but bite the words out.

“And get gored yourself, smart Stiles,” Derek’s reply comes quick as he finishes the knot. Stiles winces at the momentary sharp pain, and looks to Derek with a glare as the werewolf stands up.

It’s not Stiles fault that the manticore turned its impossibly ugly giant head his way and managed to catch his arm with its too sharp horns. Stiles was trying to save people, because he’s one of the good guys.

“It’s gone,” Scott pants as he slides open the loft door.

Stiles had managed to duck out of the creature’s sight, and get this far at least. The pottery shop hadn’t been too far from the loft to begin with. Which was a good thing, considering the six inch bloody gash Stiles had recently acquired.

“Gone gone?” Stiles asks. “Like dead gone, or like we can’t see it anymore gone? Those are two very different things?”

Derek throws Stiles a look before turning all his attention, and his body, towards Scott.

“It ran into the preserve.” Scott says, still breathless but looking a little better. A thundering noise behind him says Isaac and Ethan are on their way up the stairs.

“I swear to any god that may or may not exist, I’m going to burn the entire freaking preserve down.” Stiles carefully does not scream. He really doesn’t.

The look Scott gives him, wide eyed and panicked, only makes sense when Stiles notices the sudden tension in Derek’s back, and _really_.

“It was ten years ago, you big baby,” the words come out of Stiles mouth before he can think. Before he can do anything to stop them, to show an ounce of sympathy towards the big stubbly ball of issues before him.

Scott’s eyes only widen further. Stiles is not paying attention to that, not when Derek has turned to him with a sharp growl and eyes blaring neon blue. It’s the first time in a long time any of the wolves have ever really threatened Stiles and he finds himself falling backwards off the desk chair in surprise, and maybe a bit of unchained fear as well.

“Stiles, what is wrong with you?” Scott asks as Derek storms past both of them and noisily up the metal stares. It’s not like he won’t be able to hear them, but certainly the point is he can’t see them.  
“I know, I know,” Stiles groans. He drags a hand across his face before dropping to lie flat on his back on the floor of the loft. “It was a dick thing to say. I’m sorry. I just got gored by a stupid manticore, and last week we were dealing with a basilisk and I’m just tired.”

Stiles throws an arm across his eyes, his injured arm, and immediately yelps in pain.

“We’re all tired Stiles,” Scott says. “But there’s nothing we can do other than fix it,”

Stiles moans an inarticulate noise. It shows how he’s feeling much better than words right now, he thinks.

“He’s not dead, is he?” Ethan’s voice comes out panicked, and Stiles mentally bumps him up on the scale of favorite werewolf of the week.

“He’s not dead.” Stiles says, undoubtedly as Scott opens his mouth to do the same.

“It’s in the preserve but Ethan thinks we could drive it out if we use that howling technique to make our numbers sound greater, the way the alpha pack did when they took Erica and Boyd.” Isaac says.

“Great,” Scott is quick to reply. “Maybe then we can reason with it, see why it’s here. We should all go tonight.”

“Stiles isn’t coming.” Derek’s voice comes from the second level and the oldest werewolf appears back on the stairs.

Stiles is flailing to an upright seat looking indignant.

“What?” Isaac asks quickly.

“It attacked Stiles earlier, it could have killed him.” Derek says.

“It attacked me because I wanted it to attack me! I mean chase me. I was trying to get it away from the middle of downtown!” Stiles argues, but no one apparently is listening to him.

“Derek has a point,” Scott has thankfully gotten past the point of making pained faces when agreeing with Derek. Unthankfully, he is agreeing with Derek. “Call Allison and Aiden and tell them the plan.”

“Plan? What plan?” Stiles asks, only to find himself ignored again. _Really_ , that is _so_ rude.

“Danny too,” Ethan says.

“Why does Danny get to go? He’s human too!” Stiles doesn’t even begin to argue over Allison’s involvement. He knows better. Allison is sometimes more capable than the werewolves themselves.

“Danny’s going to stay at home and keep track of us with our phones.” Ethan says, and _finally_ someone is acknowledging Stiles.

“When did we come up with that idea? When did Danny start hacking again?” Stiles asks to a seemingly deaf audience planning there dusk venture into the preserves.

“Oh come on, I’m not a weakling!” Stiles shouts, he truly shouts feeling as if nothing else might get the attention of Scott or Derek. It works, Scott looks to him hurt, offended, radiating sadness from those large brown eyes. Derek’s are colder.

“You’re not a werewolf.” The man says. 

Stiles stares at him, stares at all of them but more specifically at Derek. The words sinking into the air like heavy fog. 

Isaac says something about seeing how much damage there is down town, and they’ve all turned to leave when Stiles feels something of his control return.

“What plan?!” He screams at the loft door as it slides shut. His voice nearly aching from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note. The speed of the recent updates is due to class just starting and me busying myself writing in the hour breaks I have and am stuck on campus. I would expect for updates to slow down in a month or so, probably come to a dead stop in march, and pick back up again in may. Just... a heads up. So no one gets there hopes up that this whole, chapter a day thing will continue indefinitely.
> 
> On a DIFFERENT note,  
> Thank you all for reading! It means a lot to me that you would actually spend time to read, and wait for updates! I look forward to every comment, and do read them all, though I respond very sparsely. I will respond if you have questions though, so long as I don't give anything away. Also every kudo makes me smile. Honestly, it's just nice knowing there are people out there who like what I can do. So thanks:) You are all awesome!
> 
> (also, psst, feel free to always let me know if there's a typo or anything. I don't always get around to double reading/editing.)


	11. Peter Hale eats Tofu

Stiles could have gone over to Danny’s and spent the night having annoyed looks cast at him while he pesters his classmate about the software they’re using and how Danny knows how to do that, how to hack at all. Stiles could have done that, but he’s pissed and filled with energy and has nowhere to direct it.

He can’t be angry at the pack. He _can_ , but right now it’s not smart. It’s not an ideal time to pick fights. Manticore are scary shit. Body of a lion, head of a human, 8 rows of a teeth and a rack like a longhorn bull. Oh, and did Stiles forget, the scorpion tail that can _paralyze_ people? 

He’d looked them up as soon as he’d gotten back to his place, still fuming from the interaction at Derek’s loft. It had been hard to get a good glimpse of the thing when running for his life, and now Stiles is very glad he hadn’t. The few illustrations he comes up with scare him to pieces. He’d been mad, but not mad enough to not give Scott and the pack a fair warning. And maybe a biting remark to let Derek try and handle the thing first, because Stiles _is_ petty sometimes. It’s not like paralysis is new to Derek anyway.

Instead of moping at home trying not to be angry, and just getting angrier at the constant reminder that he’s not out there with them, Stiles shoves Peter’s laptop, a pair of pajama pants, extra clothes, and his AP physics book into his backpack. Then he drives the familiar long hour out to the motel.

“I didn’t bring food, and I’m really not in the mood to hear about it. The Packs out chasing a manticore through the preserve and I’m on house arrest because I’m not a werewolf.” Stiles says in one breath as soon as the motel door opens.

“Just hello, would have sufficed.” Peter says. His lips doing that little uptick as if he’s keeping back a smirk he really wants to let loose. Stiles groans and pushes past the man and into the apartment.

He drops his book bag alongside the bed and glances at the unturned sheets before turning to find Peter watching him with tight lips and arms crossed.

“Look, I’m bored, I’m angry, entertain me,” Stiles says.

“Well, when you put it so nicely,” Peter sighs, but something in his voice seems undeniably weak. Stiles figures the werewolf was probably just as bored, holed up here for god knows whatever reason Peter has to actually be _here_. Back in Beacon Hills.

“What do you suppose I do to entertain you? Dance an ancient werewolf jig? Start a virgin blood ritual? Turn on a marathon of _The Price is Right_?” Peter says.

Stiles groans and flops back onto his back on the bed. He really isn’t in the mood for Peter’s jokes.

“You don’t have Candy Land in that back pack of yours, do you?” 

Stiles looks to the werewolf who’s standing there smirking down on him.

“Really?” he asks and Peter rolls his eyes. “Like, all of my friends are traipsing through the woods trying to find some mutant bull- _thing_ so they can try and _talk_ it out of rampaging through town. So, really, I am not in the mood.” Stiles huffs.

Peter just watches him for a moment, not saying anything and Stiles thinks—hopes—that his point got across to the werewolf.

“I’d settle for Parcheesi.” Peter muses, looking to his nails and Stiles just groans and flops back on to the bed covering his eyes.

Why he expected Peter to actually act like and adult, or someone with a heart was beyond him. Of course he didn’t care that Stiles was really stressed out, and that his friends might die. I mean, Stiles was used to the possible chance that they might die at any moment by now, and existentially everyone is going to eventually die. But the risk of sudden painful death was always higher when they _weren’t_ listening to his advice than when they were… and currently, he wasn’t even allowed around to _give_ advice.

“Watch TV.” Peter offers.

Stiles drags his hands down from his face enough to watch the werewolf move to get something from one of the dresser drawers.

“If I wanted to watch TV I would have stayed at home.” Stiles mutters, watching as the werewolf straightens up with something in his hands. 

That something, looks suspiciously like a wallet and Stiles frowns at the dark leather. Peter just turns to him with a very dramatic sigh that says he’s the one who’s most annoyed here.

“Go take a bath,” he says.

“What?” the word tumbles out of Stiles’ mouth more than it’s actually said. “No, motel bathrooms are disgusting!” he adds quickly, processing what Peter had suggested he do.

Peter gives a second, Oscar worthy, annoyed sigh. He drops the wallet on the table and crosses his arms. 

“Stiles, I’ve been living here the past month, do you really think I wouldn’t have scrubbed the bathtub by now?” Peter asks, staring at him.

Stiles stares back, quiet for a moment. Peter is rather more adjusted to living like a human than Derek. Though Stiles never saw where he was actually living, he could almost guarantee it wasn’t a burnt out condemned home, rusted out condemned train station, or flooded out should-be-condemned loft. Peter had a nice car, more than three shirts, and a laptop after all. And _that_ was when he was half-out of his mind with alpha rage.

“Ok.” Stiles coincides. 

He almost expects Peter to be surprised, and to have been joking again with the suggestion, but the man just nods and moves to take a seat at the small table. He opens his book back up and Stiles watches him for a moment, surprised at his complete nonchalance.

“I’m not going to run the water for you.” Peter says, not looking up from his book.

Stile startles at the words and scowls. He shoves himself off the bed and heads for the bathroom, not catching the smirk the werewolf throws his way.

He locks the door once inside. It’s a little habit from when he’s home alone. A small comfort that no one can come get him, because let’s face it. Having to face off a home intruder while naked would be incredibly embarrassing for anyone. Even Lydia, who has a perfect body. Or Derek. Maybe not Derek… Derek might actually be more at home fighting someone while naked…

Stiles shakes the image out of his head and kicks his shoes off. He feels a little stupid as he pulls his shirt over his head then bends to inspect the faucet.

“How come using any other tub than your own is like a puzzle from _Saw_?” Stiles complains to himself after turning or pulling the single knob hadn’t worked.

He can hear Peter laughing outside faintly, and he frowns. Forever annoyed at the 99.8% of his friends who have super hearing, smell, sight, and who knows what else.

When Stiles finally gets water to start flowing—you have to push the knob up—he takes a moment to look around the bathroom. Peter has a couple bottles on the tub corners. Body wash, 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and bubble bath. Stiles nearly cracks up at the fact that Peter Hale uses head ‘n shoulders. He chooses to add bubble bath to the tub because who in their right mind ever turns down bubbles?

There’s shaving cream and after shave, and even lotion on the sink and Stiles dares look in the cabinets to see if there’s maybe werewolf Advil and allergy medication in there. There isn’t. Of course not, werewolves don’t get allergies or headaches.

Stiles turns his attention back to the tub, swivels it off and then strips out of his pants and boxers. It’s a little weird, stripping down to nothing in Peter’s bathroom. Peter’s _motel_ bathroom. But Stiles wasn’t about to take a bath in his boxers either. He pulled his socks off, trying not to picture Peter laughing at the sound of him hopping on one foot, and stepped into the bath. 

The water was pleasantly hot and he sunk into it quickly, not caring if water and suds sloshed over the side.

His mom had always made him take a bath as a kid if he was crying, or sick. There was something about soaking in a lot of hot water that made everything feel a bit better. The only time it hadn’t… the only time a bath had ever made him feel worse was when she died. No amount of water or bubbles could have washed the sadness off...

Stiles took a deep breath and told himself not to think about it. If he thought too deeply on losing his mom, he’d only stress more over the idiotic non-plan his friends were acting on tonight. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to put himself elsewhere. Good elsewhere, Lydia’s bathroom with her, or some Swedish Sauna, or on a space ship. Space ships are pretty cool.

…

Stiles had fallen asleep, or into some semi-coma like trance, when the shutting of a door startled him back to the real world. He flailed in the tub, trying to shoot to his feet without slipping and braining himself on the edge of the tub… or toilet.

He splashes water over the floor, searching for a towel to wrap around his waist before he hauls open the door. Not wanting to face intruders, or Peter Hale, entirely naked.  
It ends up just being Peter Hale, setting a large brown paper bag of what suspiciously smells like Chinese food down on the table. A pick up number written on a piece of paper and stapled to the bag.

“You left me here?” Stiles asks, flailing with one arm as the other holds up his towel. “In the bath!” he adds.

Peter hardly looks to him, pulling out containers and setting them on the table.

“Only I have the key,” the werewolf says. “Besides you locked the bathroom door.” Peter looks at Stiles then, gives him one of those small, tiny smirks that leaves Stiles feeling naked.

In fact, he’s close to it. With a huff Stiles turns and shuts himself back up in the bathroom. More to get his towel-clad body out of Peter’s sight and into some real clothes.

He returns back outside to the room when he’s full dressed again—sans socks and shoes. No one sane puts on used socks. Stiles dumps the pair beside his backpack next to the bed before moving to the table.

“So, what do we have?” He asks and Peter snaps chopsticks at him before he can reach into a container to steal a snow pea.

“Get a bowl,” Peter says, waving his chopsticks in the direction of the clean yellow ceramic bowl. 

Stiles thinks it’s an awfully bright color for someone like Peter Hale.

“You actually bought food with me in mind?” Stiles asks.

“I wasn’t going to eat in front of you. I have manners.” Peter says, continuing to add things to his own bowl and bed of rice.

Stiles rolls his eyes because, really, he doubts that. He does grab the bowl and slip over to the table to fill it. Besides the standard white rice and beef with snow peas, Peter had also picked up mui choy with pork belly, dumplings, and some kind of veggie tofu stir fry—which, oh my god, Peter eats Tofu.

Stiles clamps his teeth down on his lip to keep from snickering as he fills his bowl. When he looks up Peter is holding out a beer. Stiles stares at it; he hadn’t even seen Peter bring in a six pack.

“You’re a teen, not innocent.” Peter says, rolling his eyes and the bottle.

“Exactly, I’m a teen.” Stiles snaps but takes it anyway. 

Peter just gives him one of those little smirks. Stiles curls his lip in a mock snarl before sinking into a seat on the bed. He digs in and Peter just watches him for a moment before taking a careful bite of his own. 

“You know providing alcohol for minors is illegal,” Stiles says after a moment and Peter drops his chopsticks in his bowl with a dramatic shocked little gasp.

“Oh god, they’ll revoke my upstanding citizen card,” he says, and Stiles bites back a snicker. 

Peter moves to chuck a bottle opener at the teen.

“Ah ha!” Stiles spit the words out. “I knew you were too fancy for twist offs.” 

Peter snorts and pops a dumpling in his mouth. Stiles moves to pop the beer open, setting the cap and opener aside before taking a sip. It’s wheaty and tastes like ass so he just has to pull a face. He doesn’t drink beer, not frequently. Usually it’s his Dad’s whiskey when he’s managed to sneak it out of the house, or cheap rum or vodka mixed in with juice or punch. Not beer.

Peter’s lips pull up in a little smirk and Stiles really doesn’t want to give Peter Hale the satisfaction so he slams down a large gulp before shoving his face with Chinese food. He’s got his cheeks full of pork belly and a wad of Mui choy between his chopsticks when he notices Peter reaching for the backpack up against the bed.

Stiles shoots a leg over the side of the bed, caging his back pack up against the bedframe, before glaring at Peter. For once the man actually looks surprised—as if Stiles had slapped him, which he wishes. He so wishes he had.

“You abandoned it. You left it, and it’s ours now.” Stiles manages to get out around his mouthful of Chinese food, and if Peter doesn’t look downright indignant

“I might have private stuff on there.” Peter says, his lips flattening.

“Oh yes I’m dying to see your porn collection.” Stiles rolls his eyes, huffing out the words after he’s swallowed his mouthful.

Peter chokes on his beer and Stiles looks to him in surprise. The wolf is chuckling—no Laughing so hard he couldn’t swallow the sip of alcohol he’d taken. Stiles is shocked and slightly upset with the world that he can’t take a video of this, because this, Peter nearly shooting beer out of his nose, is comedy gold. Stiles is thrilled to be the one to have caused it, even if he can’t video it.

“I knew you had one.” Stiles grins into his bowl.

Peter snorts between dying chuckles. 

“You’ve put a lot of thought into it,” He asks and Stiles blinks, looking up as he shoves another bite into his mouth. “been imagining me and my porn collection, hm?” Peter asks and Stiles frowns. He absolutely does not choke on his food.

“You’re an asshole.” Stiles says, when he swallows.

Peter shrugs and reaches for the backpack again. Stiles tugs it closer between him and the bed and Peter levels a look at the boy. Neither say anything. Peter shoves the teen’s leg away by the knee and slips his fingers around the handle of the back pack. He drags it over to and under the table before getting out of his chair.

Stiles frowns at him, watching as the man picks up his bowl and beer.

“No, _oh no_.” Stiles grabs his bowl with two hands and starts to get up off the bed.

“Relax, kiddo,” Peter snags the teens shirt and pulls him back onto the bed. “I’m not going to eat you. The view is awful from there.” 

“View?” Stiles asks as Peter takes the remote and flicks the television on. 

“Cold Case Files, The Bachelor, How Harry met Sally, or… Survivor.” Peter says, smirking at the teen.

Stiles takes the remote from him and flicks back to the Rom Com, because _god_ , no he’s not watching murder cases being solved with the murder wolf, no matter how much Stiles likes the show.

Peter says nothing and Stiles shifts and stares down at his bowl.

“I can’t believe this.” He grumbles.

“That bath was supposed to help you relax,” Peter says.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles bites back his next words _relaxing isn’t something I’m good at._

He used to be really good at relaxing. Stiles used to be the relaxing pro. If Scott got benched, _again_ , at lacrosse practice then there was a tub of ice cream and a basket full of video games with his name on it at Stiles house. If a K9 officer got sick, well Stiles had fettuccine alfredo and game night for his Dad. If Lydia—well Stiles would kill for Lydia to come to him for anything, let alone help relaxing. 

Stiles shoves a dumpling around his bowl absently, blinking when Peter’s chopsticks swoop in and nab it. He watches the man pop it in his mouth in aghast.

“You did not—” Stiles jabs his chopsticks at the werewolf’s bowl and Peter knocks them away with his own and a soft chuckle.

“Fucker.” Stiles mutters under his breath. 

Peter chuckles again and Stiles waits until he thinks the werewolf isn’t looking before trying to steal something out of his bowl again. Peter deflects perfectly again and Stiles hisses through his teeth. He snaps his chopsticks at Peter and the man just combats it with a wave of his own. 

Stiles tries a few more jabs before giving up. He rolls his eyes as he looks back to the TV. Peter nudges him with an elbow and Stiles looks over to see the man offering him a dumpling between his chopsticks. Stiles presses his lips flat and offers out his bowl. Surprisingly the man drops the dumpling into the bowl without a teasing word or look.

Stiles refrains from saying anything either, not wanting to drag the moment on. He shoves the dumpling in his mouth and faces forward, focusing on the movie and trying to forget this is his life. This is how he’s spending his night, with the probably worst enemy of his _pack_ while they’re out chasing down a manticore.  
…  
“You asleep?”

Stiles grunts at Peter in response, before glaring at him though and shifting on the bed.

“Just checking,” Peter’s chuckle sometimes reminds Stiles of smoke, sometimes. Not this time. Maybe this time.

Stiles focuses on the TV as it flickers. Peter must have turned whatever movie was playing down low. Did he dose off? Stiles doesn’t remember dozing off.

“Fortune cookie?” Peter offers and Stiles turns to glance at the werewolf offering out half of the sweet cracker.

He thinks about just opening his mouth and letting the man feed him, to see if it’ll shock Peter. Or really—he does just open his mouth, too tired to keep thought from becoming action, and Peter isn’t shocked at all. He just drops the cookie in Stiles mouth and turns his attention to the little slip of paper.

“You are never selfish with your advice or your help,” Peter reads.

Stiles crunches down on the fortune cookie.

“Clearly they have never met you.” He says and the werewolf shoots him a pretty menacing side eye. 

Stiles yawns, half eaten cookie and all, and takes delight in the put upon face Peter gives him.

“Wake me up if my phone goes off.” He mutters, turning on his side. 

He really shouldn’t fall asleep, in a dirty motel room, with Peter Hale sitting on the bed next to him. Then again, it’s not the first time and Stiles doesn’t want to drive home right now. Not if it’s going to his empty house, to sit and wait and not sleep because of all the anxi-fucking-ty of having to wait to hear from his friends to know if they’re not dead.

They’re not dead. Stiles tells himself. He also tells himself that Peter would wake him up if someone texted, rather than doing a victory dance over the untimely demise of his nephew and six teenagers.

“They could be worried about losing your research abilities.” Peter says, voice almost blending in with the television. Almost.

“Watch out Peter,” Stiles mutters into the pillow that smells of lavender and men’s cologne, _Peter’s cologne_ , and not cheap bleach-y laundry detergent. “You almost said something sentimental.”

Peter stays silent and Stiles thanks the gods, god, anyone. He closes his eyes, listens to the speedy cliché one liners of the comedy world. The type his father really likes, like Gilmore Girls. The type Stiles, secretly, really likes too.

“Would you want to be a werewolf?” Peter says, and _Jesus_ Stiles was not even thinking about that—who just asks that? 

“No.” The word drops from Stiles lips. “I don’t know.” He tacks on before groaning and punching at the lavender-cologne pillow under him. Trying to flatten it. “God, let me sleep.” Stiles snaps at the werewolf, who does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, and I haven't given up on this. 
> 
> Uhm.... not edited... will edit soon... I think chopsticks randomly turn into forks??? Wanted to put something up since it's been so long, will edit soon, sorry!!
> 
> \--Edit-- Ok, chopsticks are chopsticks through and through, and a few other minor blips of mistakes are fixed too. p.s. I'm not dead.


	12. Don't Sleep in Shoes.

Stiles is drooling. It’s not the reason he wakes up, but he’s not even sure what the reason is because he’s drooling and Peter is still beside him on the bed. Granted neither of them are under the sheets and Peter isn’t lying down like Stiles is. Actually, he’s still sitting up, back against the wall and a book in his lap.

For a minute Stiles worries that Peter is awake and not only has witnessed Stiles drooling in his sleep, but flailing awake. Peter is not awake, however, and it startles Stiles a little to realize. He’s not sure he’s ever actually seen Peter Hale sleep. 

He’s got his chin tucked into his chest, and the book he was reading still in his hands. He’s almost cute—almost—if he weren’t an undead asshole who had gone on a murderous rampage at the beginning of their relationship… of Stiles knowing him. The teen gives a huff, and pushes up from the bed before looking around for his phone.

He needed to know what time it is and he needed to know if his friends were ok. Actually, that was _way_ more important than the time. Stiles’ phone was on the bed between them, and the teen practically dives on it, plucking it up and checking the LCD face for any news. There is, and Stiles feels his heart clutch even at the comforting news from Scott.

_Were all good. Teh manticore is gone. Pack breakfast at 9 at Hi-Lo. See you then._

Stiles lets himself sigh, run a hand through his hair and reread the text a few dozen times. Everyone’s fine. Stiles doesn’t know how, but he’s glad to hear it. He’d really hoped everything would be fine. 

He opens the keyboard to reply when his eyes catch the time. It’s 7:18. He’s got an hour drive back to Beacon Hills, then he’s got to shower off the smell of Peter and Motel and _oh my god_ Stiles is not thinking about how bad that sentence could sound.

He has to leave now if he wants any wiggle room, and Stiles does. He likes wiggle room, a lot.

He shoves off the bed and tucks his phone in his pocket before searching for his shoes and his book bag. They’re both under the table. Stiles slips his shoes on, grabs the bag—surprised to still find the laptop in it—and glances to the sleeping werewolf. Peter hasn’t woken up at all. Stiles would have thought for sure that he’d made enough noise to wake the werewolf up, but apparently not. 

Peter looks like he could be somebodies Dad or Uncle, sitting there asleep mid chapter-sprint. He does not at all look like a man-killer. He’s both, actually, Stiles bites down on the realization. 

Stiles should go. He should really just go. Instead he takes a step or two closer to the bed. Peter doesn’t stir and Stiles bends down a little just to see before he reaches to take the book out of Peter’s hands. He’s been bending the cover back, something teachers had constantly told Stiles not to do when he was a kid. _Don’t bend the cover. Don’t twist it. Don’t fidget._

 _A well-read book, a loved book, always has a few torn pages._ Stiles mother had said.

Stiles bites his lip, chews on it, and slowly pulls the book free. He turns it over in his hands, closing the curled cover to read the front. _Gold Fame Citrus_. Despite the fruit, it definitely sounds like something Peter would read. Gold, Fame, might as well through _Alpha_ in there. 

Which… no. Stiles didn’t want to think about. He had to go, he has to shower, he has to see if all good really means bruises and broken bones.

Stiles wiggles the book between his hands and looks to Peter’s shoes. He’s still wearing them. It can’t be comfortable… you just don’t sleep in shoes. Stiles should take them off. Stiles _would_ take them off, but that would mean touching Peter’s feet and no, they weren’t that friendly. 

The teen turns around and drops the book on the table. Their Chinese takeout from last night is still out, which, of course, where else would it be? In the fridge? The rinky-dink little motel fridge? Stiles gives a slight laugh, claps a hand to his mouth and glances to Peter. Peter is still asleep. At this point Stiles has to wonder if Peter Hale might actually be able to sleep through a freight train barreling through Beacon Hills Industrial Park.

Stiles gives a slight sigh. It’s almost cruel to let someone sleep in their shoes. He’s done it, it doesn’t feel good. He moves back to the bed, pulls a face and works to undo Peter’s laces. He gets one shoe off, and then the other, before setting them beside the bed. He reaches to pat Peter’s leg, a gesture he’s used to from all the nights he’s taken his father’s shoes off when he’s fallen asleep practically standing up. Stiles freezes, because, really? Was that the comparison he’d just drawn? That vicious, zombiefied Peter Hale was in anyway like Stiles’ sweet, law abiding and upholding father? No. _God_ no. 

Stiles moves away from the bed and grabs an extra fortune cookie from the table. He pops the package open as he slips from the motel room, and wads it up before shoving it in his pants pocket. He’ll drive home, he’ll shower, he’ll start a load of laundry and toss the extra clothes in his bag in just in case they absorbed Peter scent through proximity, and then he’ll head out to Hi-Lo. It’s a plan.

Stiles pops a piece of cookie in his mouth and pauses before his jeep to read the fortune.

_Investigate new relationships with Friends._

Yeah, right. Hah. More like investigate getting _new_ friends. Stiles snorts, shoves the slip of paper in his pocket, the cookie in his mouth, and hops into the Jeep.

…

Stiles is a little late to the diner. He’d timed everything right, his drive home, his shower, sorting laundry, and somehow, irrevocably so, he is late.

“Hey, sorry guys,” Stiles says, turning to the table and freezing because whoa, _wow_ , I mean, they all just look like they’d been roughed up. “I was sleeping… and then I wanted to shower…”

Besides the bruises, scrapes, and Derek being most definitely in a sling, yup that’s a sling, everyone shares a similar, almost thankfully exhausted look.

“Glad, we didn’t worry you out of your beauty sleep,” Aidan says and Stiles balks a little.

“Excuse me?” he asks, stepping towards the table. “I _was_ worried. I was worried sick, but was I allowed to help any? At all?” Stiles asks.

“Sit down Stiles.” Derek says and Stiles glances to him with a glare because, no, he hasn’t forgotten that he kinda hates the man’s guts for it all right now.

“Derek ordered you a milkshake, chocolate-banana, your favorite,” Scott says quickly.

He gives Stiles those puppy dog eyes, and almost a pout and Stiles really, _really_ , wants to know how the hell Derek knows what Stiles’ favorite milkshake is. Or, _or_ why Scott told him.

Stiles takes his seat with a huff and looks over the pack again. Besides Derek’s arm in a sling, Isaac has a black eye, Ethan’s sporting a fine-looking fat lip, Scott might be missing a bit of hair on his left side, and Aidan definitely has a softball sized welt smack dab in the middle of his forehead.

“You guys look like shit,” Stiles says. “I thought werewolves have special superfast healing powers?”

Derek snorts, and rolls his eyes.

“Uhm, yeah, well…” Scott gives Stiles this teensy-tiny little smile, his I’m-about-to-pretend-a-big-problem-is-really-a-not-so-big-problem smile. “Apparently some supernatural creatures’ can deliver bad enough blows?” 

Stiles thinks this is definitely something they should have known _before_ going into the woods after a man-eating manticore. It’s definitely something _he_ should have known before letting them go, and _that_ is what really hurts.

“So Derek’s arm is really broken?” Stiles asks turning to the werewolf beside him.

Derek gives him a side eye which is miraculously not unlike Peter’s own side eye. Stiles can see the family resemblance. 

“I mean, really broken, cast and everything?” Stiles asks. “Who’d you even go to for that? Deaton?” 

Scot sinks low in his chair which means… which means Melissa McCall. Stiles presses his lips flat. At this rate, at this rate Melissa McCall was basically going to have to be pack because she’d helped out with far too much to not know what the hell they’re doing.

“So…” Stiles pulls the syllable out for a few minutes, glancing to the waiter as puts a milkshake down in front of the teen. “How’d it go?” Stiles asks, scooting forward to suck the straw into his mouth. 

The silence says it all. Stiles slurps audibly on his shake, waiting for someone to say anything. He tries to slurp even louder, sucking on the straw with all his might. Someone will crack, eventually. 

“It didn’t go as planned…” Derek cracks first, but Derek is a man of few words so Stiles absolutely does not stop slurping.

“The manticore didn’t want to talk,” Scott admits sheepishly.

Stiles turns to look to him with a raise of eyebrows, still slurping.

“Or listen,” Isaac adds.

Stiles pauses briefly to take a breath before he’s slurping again. 

“We couldn’t talk it into going away, or calming down, so we had to… I mean we couldn’t just let it go on killing people in town or a different town,” Scott says quickly.

“Scott killed it.” Aidan blurts. “Now Jesus, stop,” 

Stiles does, but not immediately. He gives Aiden a dirty look, gives one more noisy suck, before popping his lips from the straw and frowning at everyone.

“So,” Stiles says. “Uhm, I told you so.” He gives a little flail of a shrug before grabbing the cherry of his spoon.

“So,” he says, ignoring Scott’s kicked puppy look, and Derek’s glare. “Is it dead? Dead, dead? Like actually dead? Did you do a double tap?” he asks.

Scott actually looks like he might cry, and if it weren’t for the giant dose of I-freaking-told-you-so Stiles would actually feel pretty bad.

“Scott slashed its throat, but you can go back and check if you want.” Ethan says with a slightly evil teasing grin that makes Stiles think the pack really needs to reevaluate the twins… moral character.

Stiles gives Ethan a super dirty look, and moves to give an offensive slurp of his milkshake. 

“So… who’s gonna bury it?” Stiles asks.

“Derek is,” Isaac says glancing to Scott who gives a mournful look to his breakfast melt.

“One armed Derek?” Stiles asks, gesturing to the werewolf besides him.

Derek gives a low growl because apparently they are not in public, and growling is acceptable. Stiles sticks his tongue out at the man.

“Derek offered,” Scott says quietly.

“Before or after he ended up in a sling?” Stiles asks.

“I can dig a hole.” Derek grits out.

“Dude, your arm is in a _sling_ ,” Stiles says, motioning to Derek’s broken arm. “You have no idea how hard it is to do _anything_ in a sling. I’m helping you dig that hole.” Stiles says.

Derek gives him a funny look, and you know what, that’s a nice way to thanks someone for offering to help you dig a hole for a body. Stiles is going to remember that. See if he helps Derek dispose of his next dead body. 

The pack brunch was more of a let-Stiles-know-everyone’s-ok brunch. Minus Allison… because as Isaac recalled she looked as if she’d dismember and devour Scott when he even suggested it be an all-play. Which, that was fair Stiles figured. If he’d just had to fight a man-eating beast all night, he’d probably want to sleep in too. 

Which is while Stiles suggest they cut the whole thing short, because as much as he liked his chocolate-banana milkshakes he was still mad. Still mad that no one listened to him, still mad that he wasn’t allowed to come along last night, and still mad that Derek was suspicious of him. Even if Stiles was getting information from the werewolf’s shady undead uncle.

The twins are the first to jet, and Stiles decides to be second. He makes sure Derek tells him when and where he’s going to bury the manticore, and then he’s zipping out of the diner because Scott looks near tears and you know what, Isaac can handle this since he’s Scott’s new best friend. 

Stiles buzzes as he’s getting into the jeep and he glances to his phone. It’s a text from Peter, great, just great. He flicks it open, anyway.

_Why didn’t you wake me up before you left?_

It’s not exactly what Stiles is expecting, actually it isn’t at _all_ what Stiles is expecting. Some kind of quip about one night stands, leaving before dawn…

_Why didn’t you wake me up when Scott texted me?_

Stiles kind of wishes that texting could convey the exact amount of annoyance he has with the man.

_Everything was fine._

The text is barely in before another follows.

_I would have woken you up if things hadn’t been._

_You looked like you needed the sleep._

Stiles doesn’t even know how to respond to that. Does he believe Peter is telling the truth? Does it even matter anymore? Stiles gives a little groan, and turns his car on. He’ll deal with Peter later…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhm, not dead?
> 
> Graduated (yay!), had the death of a grandparent (not yay. opposite of yay.), moved back in with parents (yay?), worked two jobs for a while... now just one. 
> 
> I hope/plan to keep strong at this, so I'm very sorry for the long breaks between chapters recently. Hoping to make them shorter now. :) 
> 
> As always, lemme know if you see any mistakes!!
> 
> Alllllssssooooo, what's everyone's favorite mythical creatures? I might use them in a future chapter or so ;)


	13. Grave Digging and Snacks

Stiles manages to get two loads of laundry done before he has to hop in the jeep and head for Beacon Hills Preserve and a one armed werewolf who’s about to attempt to dig a hole. 

Or attempting, as Stiles comes to find out when he pulls up through the barrage of trees just off Sikes Road behind the Preserve. Derek has dirt smudges on his sling, and Stiles is still trying to marvel at how the man even got his jacket off with that sling on.

“You know, the whole point of me helping was so you wouldn’t end up digging your own grave,” the teen chirps as he gets out of the jeep. 

Derek just grunts at him, which is as much of a hello as anyone can expect from the moody man. 

The teen moves to pull shovels out of the back hatch before joining Derek in the underbrush between two trees. He drops them, sets his hands on his hips and looks at the shallow scratch the werewolf has made in the dirt.

“How long have you been here?” Stiles asks.

Derek does not answer right away, and when he does answer it’s practically a grunt of its own. 

“Almost half an hour,” 

Stiles chokes down his laugh, and instead leans down to pick up his shovel.

“Stand back werewolf,” Stiles motions with one hand, “I’ve got a hole to dig.”

Derek snorts, and the teen shoots him a dirty look before shoving the metal blade into the ground. It bounces against a rock and springs back taking him by surprise. If Stiles drops it… well who wouldn’t drop a shovel that’s sling-shotting back at your face.

“Sorry,” Derek says in a soft grunt and Stiles looks to him in surprise.

He opens his mouth to say it wasn’t Derek’s fault when the werewolf smirks at him.

“That laugh was premature, but,” Derek gives a fake laugh and Stiles wants to strangle him.

Instead he picks the shovel back up, wiggles the rock loose and then tosses it into the woods behind them. Stiles jabs at the dirt again, doing better this time but also loosening a few more rocks from the earth.

“Since when is the preserve so rocky?” The teen gripes, and Derek just raises his eyebrows.

“I mean seriously,” Stiles hisses. “All my mud pie making as a kid and I can’t, Jesus, even dig a stupid hole for a stupid, murderous Manticore,” 

He jabs at the dirt with every word and Derek just snickers.

“Really?” Stiles asks, spitting venom and glaring at the werewolf.

Derek gives him a shit eating grin before quietly side stepping away. Stiles glowers after him before turning back to the dirt and the shovel.

It takes him a few tries, and nearly an hour before Stiles gets past the rocky topsoil. Even then, he’s sweating, and cussing, and not having any fun. He’d offered because Derek was stubborn and _would_ try to do this alone despite a broken arm, but also because he thought it might be funny to watch Derek try. This was not funny.

Stiles curses at the ground again, wipes at the sweat on his forehead and nearly steps on Derek when he backs up slightly.

“Whoa,” Stiles flails a bit and Derek just holds out his hand.

Stiles stares at it for a moment before Derek musters the energy to actually use words. Stiles swears it’s like the werewolf forgets words exist, that they’re a thing.

“The shovel, Stiles,” Derek says.

“What? No.” Stiles snaps, gripping at the shovel even tighter “I only said I’d help to make sure you wouldn’t mess your arm up anymore.” 

“Stiles,” Derek spits the teen’s name out between his teeth.

“You have _one_ arm Derek,” Stiles says.

“Give me the shovel Stiles,” Derek huffs, sounding nearly defeated, and mostly just angry. 

Stiles has no intention of doing so, but when has that ever figured into Derek’s mind? When has Derek, or the pack, or anyone, really cared what Stiles intended or didn’t intend to do. 

Derek wrenches the shovel from Stiles hands and gives him a nudge away from the half-grave. 

“Go, sit, I packed snacks,” Derek tells him.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest but his brain is buzzing on the word _snacks_.

“You packed snacks?” Stiles asks, mouth a little agape.

Derek, bushy browed, always cross Derek, packed snacks… for grave digging? The werewolf just grunts, nodding towards his leather jacket against one of the trees. Stiles dives for it.

Of course Derek cannot be bothered to pack a lunch box or bag like a normal person. No, instead he stuffs his jacket pockets full of fruit snacks.

“Derek Hale, you eat Scooby Doo fruit snacks?” Stiles asks, pulling one of the silvery packets free from its leather prison.

“Isaac and Er- Isaac likes them,” Derek mutters, adjusting his grip on the shovel.

Stiles manages to bite his tongue when he shoves his first fistful of fruit snacks into his mouth. He’s actually thankful for this because he’s pretty sure Derek had meant to say Erica, and Stiles’ brain automatically decided to ask if these Scooby Doo snacks were harbingers of doom. He’s glad he doesn’t. He’s glad for once he doesn’t put his foot in his mouth and completely down his throat.

Instead Stiles munches on fruit snacks and watches Derek clumsily dig with his one good hand.

“So…” Stiles says, he draws the word out and watches Derek lift pitiful shovelful after shovelful from the hole and dump them on the leaves.

“How’s the broken arm?” Stiles asks.

Derek pauses before he’s turning and giving Stiles an incredulous look with bushy caterpillar eyebrows raised. Stiles gives a smile and pops another opaque blue mystery machine into his mouth.

Derek sighs and turns back to digging.

“I broke my arm once,” Stiles muses. 

Derek, in true Derek fashion, does not say anything at all. Stiles is about to have a conversation with himself, like always.

“My first summer at lacrosse camp.” Stiles empties his second fruit snack pack and pops the pieces into his mouth. “I ended up sitting on the bench all summer, but I got lots of ice cream so it wasn’t too bad. But when the thing itched… god, that was the worst. Your arm hasn’t started itching has it?”

Derek pauses in his digging, straightens up.

“Not until you said something.” Derek practically growls.

Stiles would feel bad, except it’s just a phantom itch. People get them all the time, Derek doesn’t really have an itch and it will go away soon anyway.

Derek tosses the shovel aside and the teen watches as he moves to scratch his arm over the fabric of the sling. The werewolf grunts, exasperated and pulls at the strap of his sling. He makes another couple of attempts before turning and looking pointedly at Stiles. 

Stiles frowns at him, confused for a moment before it dawns on him why exactly Derek might be giving him that strange combination of _come hither_ eyes and clear death threats.

“No, oh no.” Stiles says and Derek huffs.

“You made this happen,” Derek says by means of explanation. 

“Ok, well, maybe, but I am not going to scratch your arm for you.” Stiles replies.

“I can’t get my hand in there,” Derek explains and Stiles just rolls his eyes because euphemism, anyone?

“I’m not scratching your arm,” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest.

Derek just glowers at him, and the teen does his best to glare back. He knows he has more self-respect than that. He had thought Derek did too, but maybe it wasn’t self-respect Derek had but no shits to give.

It’s nearly 3pm, and the hole still has to be dug and Stiles really, really wants to be home in time to catch the Spy Kids movie marathon that was gonna be on SyFy.

“Fine,” Stiles wilts a little as he says it. 

Derek raises his eyebrows but doesn’t move any when the teen pushes to his feet and then picks his way over the forest floor to the wolf. Stiles pulls a face, glancing to the werewolf’s slung up arm.

Stiles gives a sigh, before he’s reaching to slip his hand in between the fabric of the sling and Derek’s hairy arm. 

They both stand there completely quiet, with Derek giving the occasional “lower”, “left”, “right”, “there” as Stiles tries to ease Derek’s minor discomfort. 

“Good,” Derek finally says after a short while, throat doing that little uptick of grunt that it does.

“Good?” Stiles asks, looking up to the man with eyebrows he hopes are as charismatic as Derek’s. 

“Yes. _Good_ Stiles,” Derek hisses through his teeth, which is totally, completely uncalled for. Stiles just did him a _favor_.

Stiles pulls his hand from the sling with a jerking motion and Derek gives a sudden sharp yelp that is really more dog than wolf… or human.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, and he really is. 

“Just,” Derek growls, clutching at his arm and taking a deep shaky breath.

“Dig?” Stiles suggests.

“Yes, dig.” Derek agrees, shoulders drooping a little as he gives the kid a wilted glare.

Stiles practically dives for the shove. He wants the grave dug, and the manticore buried, and his life to take back some semblance of peace. He wants this, like, yesterday.

Derek sits by the tree and collects Stiles’ abandoned fruit snack wrappers before finding another packet in his jacket and tearing it open. Stiles hides the giddy grin that comes to his face at the sight, and really just the thought, of Derek eating Scooby Doo fruit snacks.

…

It’s almost six when they finish burying the manticore and Stiles is pretty sure he has missed the first Spy Kids and a good portion of the second, which really leaves the third and does anyone actually _like_ the third one?

Derek is attempting to get into his jacket. Loosely draping it around his useless arm, and then trying to get his other into the sleeve. The result has been his dropping it several times. Stiles thinks he should probably help, instead he gets his phone out and takes pictures. He needs _something_ to remind him of this day.

“If it’s ok with you gimpy, I’m gonna head back now.” Stiles says, pulling the Jeep’s door open.

Derek looks up in complete surprise. Like he forgot Stiles was there, so, now Stiles finds himself to be utterly forgettable.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Derek asks, and Stiles really wants to point out how the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. “I thought… I just… I figured I’d buy us a pizza.” Derek says.

Stiles stares at the werewolf for what he is sure is an unnecessary length of time.

“We didn’t get to the Doggett episodes last time.” Derek almost sounds like a reprimanded kid, an abandoned puppy—like someone stole his bran muffins. Again.

“We didn’t even get _close_ to the Doggett episodes,” Stiles says.

“Is that a yes?” Derek asks, abandoning all hope of getting his jacket on.

“Oh my god, we just spent all afternoon together burying a body—ok, fine, whatever, I don’t care. I already missed thumb-thumbs and miniature dinosaurs, ok, pizza. You’re buying.” Stiles snaps at the werewolf before he’s climbing into his jeep.

Derek just gives this nod, and _wow_ , Stiles thinks, _he really must be bored._


	14. Niggling Feelings

The next few days passed in a blur of monster this and monster that and late night study sessions and midafternoon naps at the shitty motel Peter calls home. He doesn’t actually call it home, at least not out loud. 

Sometimes Stiles brings leftovers, and sometimes Peter gets take out; Thai, Indian, Greek, Pizza that isn’t Dominos or Papa Johns, Bosnian, Authentic Mexican, Croatian. 

Stiles is beginning to learn that Peter has an exploratory appetite, especially when while digging into his Urnebes he comments “Actually, I was a little wary of this one, but it’s good.”

Stiles had had his mouth too full of Krofne to even tease the man about possibly poisoning them both with strange food. Stiles is beginning to learn that he too has something of an exploratory appetite.

The monsters they encounter aren’t difficult… and sometimes aren’t even monsters. Isaac had found a warehouse full of creatures in cages. Some mundane, some extraordinary. Stiles had been surprised by the small clutch of Kappas, their bowled in little heads partially full with water. He’d read about the things… and not on the good side of the internet either, kinky little frog things. That didn’t keep him from helping the pack free them, especially after finding out that the man who put all those creatures there was selling them to a small western sushi chain that was making _“authentic Kappamaki rolls”_ with them.

“What are we researching today?” Peter asked, taking a seat on the bed next to the teen. 

Stiles had gotten into the habit of waltzing into the room without knocking, and Peter, for the most part, let him.

“Physics,” Stiles says, not looking up from where he lays on his stomach on the bed.

“Oh, the scariest monster of them all,” Peter chuckles.

The werewolf shifts on the bed and peers over the teen’s shoulders, he gives a click of disappointment with his tongue against his teeth. Stiles glances over his shoulder to give the man a glare. He moves to shoulder the werewolf away before reaching to put his hand on Peter’s face and shove.

Peter just laughs and snaps his teeth at the hand Stiles is quick to retreat.

“Isn’t it a little early to start school work?” Peter asks, leaning across the bed to get his book from the motel table.

The man mows down a book a day, just about. His current read being _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_.

“Not when you have AP classes and they assign homework,” Stiles replies, rolling his eyes but not looking up from the massive tome of a text book.

“AP classes?” Peter muses, shifting to lean back against the headboard. “Following Lydia around must be a chore now that she’s doing playing airhead,” 

“Hey!” Stiles will not, _cannot_ , leave that comment unrebuked. “One, Lydia is brilliant and you are still not allowed to talk about her, and two, I am also brilliant and signed up for those classes for the dual credit at a fraction of the cost.” Stiles definitely does not emphasize his two points with two fingers.

Peter gives that soft murmur of a chuckle, like a purr in his stubbly throat. The man hasn’t seemed to shave in more than a few days and Stiles is still kind of cracking up that Peter has some salt in his pepper.

“Witty and thrifty,” Peter says, bending back the spine of his book.

“You forgot pretty,” Stiles says, flipping a page in his book.

“And itty bitty,” Peter says.

Stiles whips around to give the werewolf a dirty look, and Peter just looks to him with a slow, sly movement. Stiles would call it sensuous if it weren’t for the look having come from Peter Hale—who might look like a GQ model, but Stiles doubts GQ models severe their nieces in half.

The teen turns to put his nose back into his book. Studying physics wasn’t a bundle of fun, but it also wasn’t worrying over his friends lives, or Beacon Hills resident’s lives, or his dad’s life, or his own life…

“Don’t you have a desk and a bedroom you could study in?” Peter asks.

“Yes, but when I’m here people don’t walk in unannounced.” Stiles says.

“I know that feeling,” Peter sighs the words out and Stiles shoves around to give the werewolf a put out look.

“I bring you food.” The teen says.

“I give you advice,” Peter rebuttals with a little sneer.

“Hardly.” Stiles huffs out a laugh and Peter fixes him with narrow eyes and pursed lips.

Stiles just grins, cheeks pulling with the width of the look. It’s teasing, and annoying. The grin that always made Scott’s fall into giggles, and his dad’s sour faces disappear.

Peter just rolls his eyes, looks back to his book.

Stiles drops the face and rolls his own eyes, before looking back to his book. He’s barely started reading the first sentence when the alarm on his phones goes off, a chorus of playful puppy barks. It startles the teen and makes him flail, but seems to startle Peter even more because the man gives a little jump and looks to Stiles with wide eyes.

“I have to go,” Stiles says, turning the alarm off and shoving the phone back in his pocket.

He shoves off the bed, snapping his book shut and then shoving it in his backpack. 

“Pack meeting?” Peter asks, dusty eyebrows starting to dip downward.

“No,” Stiles says, zips his bag and slings it around his shoulder. “Dad wants to have a guy’s night. Just us. It’s a tradition.” 

“Tradition?” Peter asks, eyebrows darting upwards now.

“A tradition without any set calendar date... and more than once a year.” Stiles says. “But not really once a week, sometimes not even once a month, you know, he’s the sheriff, whatever, I’m not explaining this to you. I’m going.” 

Stiles tugs his tennis shoes on before shoving the door open.

“Stiles,” Peter says, catching the boy’s attention.

The werewolf blows him a kiss before giving that devious smirk only he can really pull off. Stiles just gives a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t wait up” he tells the man before he’s leaving the motel room, keys out of pocket and in hand.

…

Sheriff Stilinski grills beef ribs with Kansas City style barbeque sauce, and corn on the cob, and the pair of them fall into a food coma on the couch with Die Hard and Die Hard 2 (which Stiles still thinks should be called _Die Harder_ ). Overall, it is a good night.

A good night shattered when Stiles is woken up by the screaming buzz of the phone stuffed under his pillow. He pulls it out, prematurely groaning over whatever supernatural terror he was about to be told was in town.

Stiles is surprised to see the black and white text alert on his lock screen. It’s an amber alert.

He glances over the text, 7 year old, girl, county over, pigtails, brown curly hair, missing since 2pm, last seen at gas station.

Another text comes in as Stiles is reading the amber alert, this one from Scott.

_Derek thinks the Kelpie is back. He might have smelled it. Impromptu pack meeting._

It’s a group text, and Stiles frowns at it, at _might have smelled_ before it hits him. Amber Alert, Kelpie. Amber Alert. Kelpie.

He hopes it’s just severe overworked generalized anxiety and a lifetime’s full of supernatural horrors crammed in the span of two months that make him think the two might be connected. He hopes to god they are not, at all, connected.

_Who else got the Amber Alert? We’re meeting by the lake._

If Stiles could tap the text out any quicker he would. He can’t though, and he nearly brains himself on his desk chair as he hops from his bed. 

He grabs a clean shirt from his drawer and a pair of jeans he knows for sure didn’t make a trip out to the motel and throws both on. He’s shoving his feet into his hiking boots when his phone buzzes again.

_Good idea. Meet by lake._

It’s Derek and for the love of—Stiles can’t believe Derek is agreeing with him, but also slightly _loves_ that Derek is. He may not be the Alpha, but he was _an_ Alpha and Scott listens to him. More than he listens to Stiles these days… but Stiles is not about to sink in to that pity party, because Derek totally agreed with him. Stiles is pretty astonished.

But not too astonished to remember to sneak out the window, onto the roof, and down the trellis that used to hold morning glories all in order to keep from waking up his father. Stiles has to put the jeep in neutral and push it out of the driveway and down the road before hopping in and starting it’s wheezy coughing engine.

…

Stiles takes the short way there; curling side streets where the speed limit has never been lowered though it should. They cut across the highway with no light, and stiles speeds because he’s the Sheriffs son and speed limits are just _suggestions_ really. 

He’s not the first or the last to get there and he practically falls out of the jeep once he gets the door open.

“Lake,” he gasps out, bee lining past his friends and straight for the tree line. 

The niggling of an idea in Stiles’ head that maybe the two are related has metamorphosed into full blown panic. Stiles knows, he just _knows_ the two are related. But he hopes he’s wrong.

“Stiles!” Scott calls after him, but its Derek and Isaac who start running after him.

Stiles knows because they lap him. Clearly better good at following directions… even if a one syllable word cannot be called a direction.

Derek reaches the lake first slowing, but Stiles doesn’t slow. He barrels past the two werewolves and splashes into the shallows of the lake, only then slowing.

There are bubbles further out in the lake. Little ones, coming up rapidly and Stiles feels like… Stiles feels like his breath is doing the same thing in his chest. Bubbling up just barely, breaking in his throat.

“Stiles, dude, what are you doing?” Scott asks, pants really.

Stiles is staring at the dark water of the lake, and the myriad of bubbles and the inky black… something that pops up with the bubbles. 

It floats this way, and Stiles takes a step forward, feet shuffling through the water before he’s taking two steps back. His feet skid on the rocks and then he’s headed to the bank, the inky thing that is not a creature, but not anything Stiles has really ever seen follows.

It washes ashore and Stiles stares at the dark red it leaks onto the rocks around it. Isaac leans in close, looking too. It takes Stiles a moment, an agonizing, breathless moment before he realizes the thing now bigger than his fist is a liver.

Stiles trips on the rocks, skids in his steps backwards before falling to his hands and knees. He can’t ignore the sharp stings of pain, or the memory that comes with it of being dragged into the icy lake waters. He can’t help but wretch and puke, because Stiles does not like blood and he never has and he’s never seen a person’s liver outside of a text book drawing and certainly not one that looks like it belongs to a seven-year-old.

He reaches to wipe at his mouth with a shaky hand, a scream peels out of the woods—sharp and familiar. Stiles looks up to the tree line to see Lydia shaking, standing in her duck pajamas and baby blue tank top. She looks out of it, dazed, undoubtedly here via banshee sixth sense and sleep walking.

Stiles shoves away from the rocks, paws his hands at his shirt to wipe them off and walks towards the girl.

“Lydia,” he says and she looks to him with that jerky, out of it movement that chills his bones no matter how many times he’s seen it.

“I… got the amber alert,” she says quietly as Stiles’ hands drift to her arms. “and then…”

“Oh god, I got that too, you don’t think?” Scott says, and Stiles doesn’t remind him that _everyone_ gets amber alerts. That’s the point.

Stiles doesn’t do this, because he’s too busy trying to hold Lydia as she shakes, and also wishing he’d worn a jacket so he would have something to give her.

He’s really no sooner wished it than Derek’s jacket magically manifests at his shoulder, and Stiles is snatching it up and drawing it around Lydia’s shoulder as Aiden glares at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter without much interaction between Stiles and Peter, sorry guys.
> 
> As always, let me know if you find any spelling errors or such. I'm working on a edit of the whole piece, as I've found lots of errors in the older chapters.
> 
> Also, also, thank you lovelies for reading, and leaving kudos and comments! They really brighten my day :)


	15. Just an Accident

They bury the liver, or really, Aiden and Isaac bury the liver and Stiles drives Lydia home, and he doesn’t know what the rest of them do except that Scott was starting to have a freak out as it settled in. 

Lydia had looked small and pale sitting in Derek’s jacket in Stiles’ jeep. It was the way she looked every time… and if this is what Banshees did. If this is going to happen to her absolutely every time someone dies, anyone. Stiles hates seeing her like this, it’s not the Lydia he knows. 

He doesn’t bother making small talk. He just drops her off at home and points the jeep towards his home. He wants to get there, and he wants to curl up in his bed, and he wants this day… night to have never happened. 

He’s only just pulling onto Beacon Hill’s main strip when his phone goes off. Stile knows, he just knows, but he still takes the call. 

“A little girl is dead. She’s _dead_ and we couldn’t do anything about it.” Stiles says, and then “It’s back, the kelpie is back.” 

Peter is quiet and Stiles can hear him breathing which, frankly, is annoying. 

“A kid, Peter, just a little girl and now she’s dead. These people are my father’s responsibility, this whole town, they’re his people, and they’re in danger, and I can’t do anything about it. We _tried_ and we couldn’t do _anything_ and now a little girl is dead.” Stiles feels worn thin, feels like he wants to scream. 

“Stiles,” Peter says, his voice soft. 

It’s easy on Stiles’ nerves, and he’s glad he picked up. He can’t believe he’s saying… or really thinking it, but maybe Peter is exactly who he needs to talk to right now. 

“Are you driving?” Peter asks. 

Stiles pulls a face, and turns to go around the block again. He’s not ready to face his home, where his father lives, where he has to curl up in his bed and sleep like he isn’t being torn apart inside by the liver on the lake rocks, or the colorless face of Lydia. 

“Stiles it’s not your fault.” Peter’s velvety voice doesn’t make Stiles believe it. “Sometimes accidents happen, and you can’t blame yourself for them.” 

Stiles feels himself lock up at those words. His foot pumping the brake. 

_Accidents happen._

_  
_

_It was an accident._

He remembers Scott telling him that, but they’re not Scott’s words. _It was an accident_. Laura’s death was an accident, according to Derek, according to Peter, before Stiles got Scott to put two and two together about spirals and pictures of dead dear and Derek’s half-assed welcome to werewolfdom lessons. 

“Stiles?” Peter asks and Stiles feels himself clenching at the wheel, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. 

“An accident.” Stiles says, feeling his words thick and bitter on his tongue. “That’s not exactly comforting coming from you.” 

Peter makes a noise that sounds surprised, as if Peter could be surprised by anything. 

“I’m supposed to feel better because some girl died and it was just an accident. Like… that makes it so much better. Just pretend you never had anything to do with it in the first place. Things happen. Accidents happen.” Stiles has to put the Jeep in park, has to keep from trying to steer with his shaking hands. 

“Stiles I meant it’s not your—” Peter starts. 

“No.” Stiles snaps, cuts the werewolf off. “No, I know what you meant. I know that one little girl means nothing to you. I know that Peter Hale only cares about Peter Hale, and that this conversation couldn’t have gone any other way—but guess what? She means a whole lot to me. To my Dad, to my friends—to her own parents. That’s somebody’s kid.” 

Stiles isn’t really screaming, but his voice isn’t calm either. The words high and sharp and shaking. He feels thin and near tears, and he really, really, doesn’t want to cry. Not when Peter Hale can hear him. 

So he hangs up on the werewolf. 

Stiles stares at his phone’s dark screen for a second before he chucks it in the passenger’s side seat and struggles out of his seatbelt. It’s too tight, clutching at his chest, and he needs to be free of it. He needs to _move._

He shoves the jeep door open and practically trips out. His body feels alive with a thrum of energy, and he’s pissed. He’s sad, and exhausted, and he’s so very pissed. He steps a few feet away from the jeep before he’s circling back and slamming his fist into the engine warmed metal. 

It hurts, and a few of his knuckles pop, and Stiles immediately regrets it. 

“oh, _oh_ , baby, sorry, I’m so sorry,” the words fall wavering from his lips as Stiles paws apologetically at the aqua metal. 

Tears bite at his eyes, and his hands still as the sob choking up his throat comes out. 

…

Stiles only takes a few minutes to compose himself, drive back around the block, and pull into the drive. The sun is steadily creeping up, and his plan to sneak in and pretend to not have gone out is replaced with a new plan to lie and say the pack had an impromptu morning run. His dad could find out about the girl from his own people. Stiles wasn’t up for that. 

Stiles also wasn’t prepared to step in the front door and find his dad completely dressed with toast in one hand and his radio in the other. 

“I’ll be there in a second,” the sheriff told the radio before looking to his son in confusion. He didn’t ask but shook his head, shuffling past his teenage son to the door. 

“What happened?” Stiles asked though he didn’t need to ask, he had a sinking suspicion. 

“The department might have a lead on a missing girl,” Sheriff Stilinski says, and more. “They just received an anonymous tip.” 

The Sheriff opened the front door as he spoke, words falling off as he and Stiles both stared at the man near ready to knock on the door. Derek… because of course Derek was here. 

Stiles pushed his eyebrows up and the Sheriff almost wilted as he looked at the man. 

“I’ll be back,” Mr. Stilinski said, glancing to Stiles before slipping out the door and past Derek. 

“You’re not even a suspected criminal anymore, you know you can just call and say ‘oh, hey Sheriff, this is Derek Hale, your son and I were out last night and guess what, there’s probably a dead girl at the bottom of the lake in beacon hills preserve.’” Stiles doesn’t even welcome Derek in because Derek will come in if he wants to, even if Stiles doesn’t want him too. 

“That’s not suspicious,” Derek gives a huff of a snort, something Stiles thinks is conveniently between derision and laughter. 

“So what _did_ you say?” Stiles asks. 

Derek blinks, as if he’s actually surprised by the question. 

“That I thought I came across a lead on my morning run, and that I just wanted to help.” Derek almost cages himself between his shoulders with the way he sets them as he talks. 

“Derek, you are the only one in Beacon Hills who goes on runs _near_ the preserve.” Stiles stares at the man before he’s rolling his eyes and waving it off. “Whatever, they probably think you’re too afraid of my dad to give your actual name,” 

Stiles turns for the stairs, he doesn’t want to be talking to Derek about the werewolf’s foisting responsibility for the girl off on to his father. What he wants is a shower, and a nap, and for the events of last night to fade into a dreamlike quality of memory. As they were now, they were too fresh, too real, too vivid. The way Lydia felt frail as Stiles coached her into his jeep, and then into her house. It wasn’t a word he ever, _ever_ , wanted to use for her because Lydia would kill him for it but mostly because he knew she was actually a very strong person. If not stubbornly so. 

The image of the liver, the almost palpable memory of it gliding in the lake’s ripples, and the inky redness of it, was on live replay in his mind. Still. The tiny, child sized liver that they had to hide. 

“Wait,” Stiles pauses before his first step and turns to frown at Derek. 

The horror of his thoughts reminding him of actually important details. 

“I thought they—we buried the liver,” Stiles says. “So why is my Dad headed out to the preserve? What is he supposed to find?” 

Derek looks like Stiles feels. Worn down, emotionally stirred, possibly near tears (most probably in Stiles case), and flat out defeated. 

“I found a sign of a struggle when I combed the woods.” Derek says. 

Of course, of course Derek combed the woods afterwards Stiles thinks. Mostly though, he’s thinking about that turn of phrase _‘signs of a struggle’_. It feels too clinical for Derek to say it, and that has to mean he’d rather not say what he really found… which means as far as _signs of a struggle_ go it’s bad. It’s really bad. Stiles is a Sheriff’s son, he can imagine just how bad bad is. 

Stiles’ brain is trying to process exactly what his Dad might be about to discover in the preserve when Derek moving, Derek suddenly being so much closer than before jerks him back to reality. 

The werewolf is watching him, and the expressions on his face are just shy of being visible. Really, Stiles needs to tease Derek Hale even more than normal about being emotionally stunted, but right now the words just don’t come up. 

The werewolf touches his arm and Stiles is still staring at the guilty hand when Derek wraps his arms around the teen in what has to be the stiffest, most haphazard and awkward hug Stiles has ever received. It may even be worse than Stiles ever imagined a hug from Derek would be, which is why he can’t wrap his head around the tears springing to his eyes. 

He wants to say something, anything, a quip like ‘you’re worse at this than I thought’ or ‘is this what a mouse feels like before it’s eaten by a boa?’ but he doesn’t. He just stands there and accepts the hug—because really that’s all Stiles is doing. His brain is still trying to wrap itself around what’s happening, and why he’s crying, and what the fuck are they gonna do about this kelpie, that he doesn’t have any brain power left to hug back, or even lift his arms. 

“You need a shower,” Derek says eventually, Stiles is pretty sure it lines up with him having quieted from quick sobs to sniffles and then to nothing. 

“Probably,” Stiles mutters. “I did pretty much puke on myself,” 

It’s those words that have Derek pushing Stiles away sharply, and towards the stairs. 

Stiles manages to get out a laugh that feels halfhearted, and then he’s turning to the stairs and starting to climb. He really does need a shower, he can smell that few wipes of stomach acid on himself. 

“There’s nothing out there now.” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t even begin to turn around but he does pause. “Dangerous, I mean. There’s nothing dangerous in the preserve right now.” 

Stiles feels himself nod more than actually thinks of doing it. His dad isn’t going to accidentally run into any danger, that’s what Derek is saying. Stiles’ dad is safe, and Derek made sure before he called in because he has just that much guilt and foresight… or he’s afraid of Stiles. Stiles might prefer the latter. 

He doesn’t say anything, just climbs the rest of the stairs and heads for the bathroom. 

…

Derek isn’t there when Stiles gets out of the shower. Which, frankly, surprises the teen because he for sure thought Derek would be lurking in the living room, scowling and wanting to baby sit Stiles. Instead, Stiles has the house to himself. 

He knows. He checks. For lurking Derek Hales. 

Stiles isn’t entirely sure what to do. If he thinks about it, which he does because he’s him, Stiles realizes he hasn’t actually been alone in a while. Sure, his Dad is never home… but like, Stiles is never alone. Derek is lurking, or… or Stiles is with Peter. 

He frowns at himself because he does not want to think about that. 

What Stiles wants is to call up his best friend Scott and have a Call of Duty Zombie shooting marathon. Except his Scott’s pretty much Isaac’s best friend now, and no amount of digital zombie shooting will help Stiles feel better about everything from last night. 

Still. 

He texts Scott

_Derek came to my house and he gave me a hug._

It doesn’t even take Scott 2 minutes to text back. 

_What?? no way!_

Stiles feels a slight smile touch his lips, but Scott’s next text has it crashing off. 

_Isaac says don’t forget Derek hasn’t gotten over Erica and Boyd._

Stiles taps a quick response before deciding to just clean the bathroom. 

_No one has._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, i promise to finish this.
> 
> Life got... things just got super crazy and rough and crazy, and I got in a weird not good place... and I'm slowly picking myself up out of it.
> 
> BUT I am going to finish this.


End file.
